Tortured Soul
by Child of Loki
Summary: With Meredith Brody's help, Christopher LaSalle seems to be recovering from a horrible physical and psychological trauma. But what will happen when Brody discovers the ordeal isn't over, and there are still demons to battle?(Cherri) (Dark Themes)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own** _ **NCIS New Orleans**_ **or its characters… (which after reading this -if you decide to do so- you will likely agree is a good thing.)**

 **Author's Note: I wasn't originally going to post this, but upon further thought, there may be those of you out there that (like myself) enjoy a dark, emotionally angst-filled story once in a while… This stemmed from my tendency to want to push characters to their limits and past their breaking point.**

 **WARNING: CONTAINS SUBJECT MATTER NOT SUITABLE FOR YOUNGER OR SENSITIVE AUDIENCES, INCLUDING NON-CONSENSUAL SEX AND MENTAL ABUSE. (Nothing too explicit in this chapter-this fic focuses on the aftermath of such trauma.)**

* * *

"Whatchya gonna do about it, Pretty Boy?"

Chris LaSalle grinned at their feisty new recruit. But there was something off in his cheerful response to Percy's snappy comeback. The younger woman was a little bit on the defensive side when it came to criticism of her agent skills... even though the criticism was minor, because Percy's mistakes were minor. Not even really mistakes. Nor errors. Just ignorance about certain protocols and procedures specific to NCIS, which she hadn't encountered before. But either way, they'd all learned how to cope with her snark. LaSalle generally took her quips in stride, good-humor firmly in tact. Well, used to...

Right now, something was off about him. And Merri suspected she knew the source. The man had been through hell in the last six months. Things had just seem to go from bad to worse. Honestly, she couldn't think of anything worse he could suffer that wouldn't end up with him dead. But rather than tip-toe around him, they'd gone on like normal, because Pride thought it was what would help his younger friend, his surrogate son, recover the quickest, and the fullest.

But at this very moment, seeing the subtle strain to the smile that didn't reach his eyes, Merri knew this wasn't an 'ignore it to render it powerless' moment.

"Why don't you check in with Patton," she said to Percy, who hadn't appeared to notice the small flaw in LaSalle's grin. But she couldn't blame the newbie agent. Not only did Merri have interrogation training and a whole year's more familiarity with the man than Sonja Percy, the younger woman was quite preoccupied with learning the ropes and proving herself.

Percy glared at Merri, as if the more senior agent was trying to punish their junior for arguing with her more experienced team mates.

"We can't move anywhere on the Rabideau case if Patton doesn't come up with a location on the man," she said, and Percy seemed to accept the explanation and backed down. She hopped off the edge of LaSalle's desk where she'd been leaning and stalked off towards their computer specialist's lair.

When Merri turned her attention back to LaSalle, he'd dropped the fake smile. His skin had gone rather ashen, a slight sheen of sweat beading on his forehead.

"I think I need some air," he said, getting to his feet and heading towards the courtyard.

Merri hesitated only for a moment before following him. He'd stopped in the middle of the open space, was bent over with his hands on his knees, his head hung down as if he were having difficulty breathing or about to throw up. Maybe both.

More than anything she wanted to touch his arm, place her hand on his back in a comforting gesture. But she wasn't sure how he'd react to physical contact at the moment. Not if... Not if she was right about her conclusions, about what had been triggered. Specifically, she wasn't sure what had set him off. But she was willing to try to figure it out, to help him deal with it, or to avoid it altogether in the future, whatever it may be, just to spare him.

They'd already banned anything remotely licorice flavored from the premises, after that one instance with the anise cookies that had him running off to the bathroom, locking everyone out while he threw up and... sobbed. He probably thought they couldn't hear. But they had heard. They felt his pain every time he let it show. And all the times he managed to keep it hidden, too.

"Chris?"

"I'm alright." He stayed where he was, his back to her, hunched in on himself, taking determined, slow breaths.

"We both know that's not true," Merri said, not wanting to back down yet again, not able to just pretend she couldn't see when he was in pain. He didn't respond to her. "Was it something Percy or I said?"

She'd walked carefully around him, couldn't see his face but saw him nod his head slowly affirmation. God, she wanted to touch him, to physically let him know he wasn't alone.

"May I touch you?" It seemed absolutely ridiculous, like she was asking permission to do something uncommonly intimate, but she supposed given his current mental state, it was.

He nodded his head again, and she placed a hand on his shoulder in as soft a touch as she could. No pressure or weight to it, nothing threatening in the least. His shoulder was warm but the muscle trembled slightly beneath her hand.

"Let's sit down," she said, coaxing him over to the patio table and chairs. She frowned a little to herself. He'd been hiding this, those times when he was suffering and broken, from the rest of them, trying to stay strong for them. And for some reason, she'd expected him to become agitated and violent when set off, like the fighter he was. But it tore her heart out to learn the truth, that he was defeated and compliant when he was dragged down into that dark place.

He'd propped his elbows on the glass table top, buried his face in his hands, was still breathing in that purposeful way of people who were afraid they wouldn't be able to take in that next lungful.

"Can you tell me what it was?" Merri asked. Emboldened by the fact that he hadn't reacted negatively to her touching him, she began to run her hand up and down his back in what she hoped was a soothing way. "Maybe we can avoid-"

"It's stupid." His voice was strangled, the words choked out and practically unintelligible, but she understood.

"It is not stupid, Chris," she said. "Not if it hurts you."

He picked up his head, looked at her, his blue eyes glistening with tears as he sought her gaze, searched her own eyes, for what? She couldn't be sure, but she hoped he could find what he needed there that would allow him to trust her, to confide in her, that would allow her to help him.

He turned his head away, and didn't look at her once as he spoke. But speak, he did. And her heart broke.

"He-" LaSalle cleared his throat. But when he continued he didn't name the man. He didn't have to. There could only be one man he could be talking about. "He called me 'Pretty Boy'... An' 'Blue Eyes'..."

They sounded like affectionate pet names. Not what- Not what she would've expected the man who'd held her friend captive for nearly a month, raped and tortured him, to use.

"That was when he was _makin' love_ ta me."

 _Oh, Chris._

She squeezed the back of his neck with one hand, rubbing at the knots with her thumb, as she rubbed his bicep with the other, leaning in to rest her chin on his shoulder and whisper quietly, calmly, _firmly_ to him.

"No matter what he did to you, made you believe, he was never making love to you. He forced you, Chris. He raped you."

"Not entirely." It was a hoarse whisper, accompanied by tears. "By the end, I was willin'. More than willin'."

He looked at her, his deep blue eyes filled with such anguish that Merri wished she wasn't capable of human emotion, wished that she could rip her heart from her chest and lock it away so she wouldn't feel for her friend.

"He broke me, Mere. He broke me good 'n' hard."

Never in her life had she so badly wanted to look away. Usually, she was the one who out-stared others. But - _oh, her heart_ \- how she wanted to be the one to flinch. Yet she couldn't. She had to be strong for her suffering friend, who'd finally chosen to share his pain with her. And she would take as much as he could give her, shoulder it so that maybe it would relieve a little of his burden.

"After he grew tired of fightin' with me, keepin' me restrained, he stuck me in a small, dark room for I dunno... mebbe a few days. Mebbe a week. Prob'ly a week, considerin' he left me seven glow sticks like them deep sea divers use. He also left me some jugs a water, a box a powerbars and a bucket for a commode. But not a stitch a clothin' or a blanket or nothin' ta keep me from shiverin' the whole time."

His voice had calmed as he explained the facts in a detached sort of way, but the strain returned as he continued, the emotions surfacing with the trauma.

"Some people can do solitary like that without battin' an eyelash. But I ain't like that. I jus' _ain't_. I need ta be 'round people. I can't be shut up like that, like a veal in a cage. No. Worse than a veal in a cage. No light. No sound. No warmth."

Merri wrapped her arms completely around her friend, leaning to the very edge of her own chair as she cuddled against him, instinctively responding to his blatant need for comforting. He seemed to respond, gain a little strength from the contact. She wasn't a touchy-feely person by nature, but she well knew the benefits of physical contact, that most people, especially people like Chris who thrived on human interaction, needed it, could be healed by it in ways words never could provide.

"By the time he took me outta that hole, I was so messed up, I thought I'd died. Death's just a dark, cold, lonesome place, ya know. He brought me back inta the light. It was so bright I had ta keep my eyes closed for a good hour. I savored ev'ry touch. He cleaned me up an' laid me back on the same bed he... as before. But the fresh sheet felt soft aginst my skin, the mattress heavenly compared to the cold, hard cement a that hole.

An' when he climbed atop me, touchin' me... that felt good, too."

Chris paused for a moment, and Merri quietly waited for him, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.

"He kissed me on the mouth. He'd never done that before, sayin' that he wouldn't gi' me the chance ta bite him. But he knew he'd broke me then. 'Cause he kissed me. An'- An' I kissed him right back."

Merri buried her face in his shoulder. He wasn't meeting her eyes as he told his story, instead staring at some nonexistent point on the other side of the courtyard, but still she didn't want him to have the chance to see the tears that had begun to slide down her own cheeks.

"An' when he took me, I was willin'. More than willin'. I was eager to feel 'im fuckin' me. I even wrapped my legs around 'im. Met 'im thrust fer thrust. It still hurt. Always hurt. But hurtin' was better than the numbness of that dark, cold, lonesome death I thought he'd left me ta suffer."

"You were happy to be alive," Merri whispered into his neck.

"Yeah. Guess that's what it was." His fingers had wrapped around her bare forearm that was pressed tightly against his chest, and they absently stroked her skin. She was relieved by the response it indicated. Maybe he was surfacing from the dark place they'd inadvertently forced him to relive.

"But from then on, I did whatever he tole me ta do. Willin'ly."

"No," Merri said, maybe in a little too harsh a tone to be using with a rape survivor having a flashback. But however angry she was at her friend's being tortured and lastingly emotionally scarred, she was a thousand times more furious that the evil bastard had made his victim think, even for a moment, that he'd wanted to be hurt, violated.

She consciously softened her tone before she spoke again. "He may have taken the fight out of you, Chris, but that doesn't mean you were consenting."

"But I shoulda fought," he said. "If I hadna been so shit-faced drunk-off-my-ass in the first place, I might've realized I been fuckin' roofied. I never woulda woken up hangin' in some warehouse like a piece a meat, sold an' used like a disposable toy."

"It's not your fault," she said. "If we had a case with a victim who'd been drugged and raped, would you tell that person it was their fault? That because they'd done something like go out to a bar and drink a little too much, they deserved to be assaulted?"

She pulled away, out of the tight embrace she'd been holding him in, coaxing him with her hand on his cheek.

"Look at me, Chris." Tear-and-pain-filled blue eyes met hers. "You wouldn't think those things of a survivor of kidnapping and abuse. So why do you think them about yourself? You're a fighter, damn it. I know it. We all know it. You made it back to us. He left you beaten, broken, stranded in the middle of nowhere, but you survived."

"He's still out there, Mere," Chris said, his voice sounding hollow, gutted... his emotional entrails spilled out before her.

"We'll get him," she said, meaning it, and at the same time knowing how futile a pursuit it might in reality be. And the perpetrator knew it, too. He hadn't cared that Chris had seen his face -had seen his entire naked body, Brody more than suspected. Even when he'd dumped his victim in a remote backwoods of southern Arkansas, after raping him and beating him one last time before drugging and disposing of his plaything, he hadn't bothered to clean up his mess. He'd left his DNA all over Chris. And running it had confirmed their suspicions... He wasn't in any database. Patton was still running down a few remote small town PDs in various part of the country who hadn't linked in to any larger judicial network.

Okay, that was untrue. There were several cases on file that had popped up as matches. The bastard had done this before, to both men and women, various ages. He seemed entirely indiscriminatory. Well, not entirely. The victims were all attractive, albeit in different ways. And it had always been like with LaSalle, entirely untraceable. Individuals taken by an intermediate while at their most vulnerable. Doubtless stalked and targeted, but not by the man whose sadistic hands they ultimately ended up in. A sort of in-country human trafficking. In Chris' case, sadly unlike so many other missing person and rape cases, they had a team of investigators determined to find their friend, and when he'd resurfaced from his ordeal, track down the bastard who'd basically broken him. They were too late in figuring out who had originally drugged him, sold him to the sadist who'd held him captive for a month. The middleman was already dead. And the few leads there were, were dead ends.

Their traumatized team mate had tried to move on. He hadn't had a drink since then. He no longer went out. But Merri wasn't sure those were necessarily good signs. He'd stopped living. Because he was afraid? Maybe. But it didn't seem to be that. He'd still been a solid partner, having their backs in the field and the office. It was more that his playful spirit had been crushed. Even after Savannah, the drinking, the womanizing... He'd just been trying to find a way to preserve his good natured, people-loving soul.

Now, now Merri feared her friend's eminently large heart had been crushed beyond repair. She was by no means religious but she found herself praying fiercely to anyone who would listen, silently imploring, pleading for her friend to be healed, or at least be capable of healing given the time and care he required.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but her fingers had begun to go numb from clinging to her damaged friend, desperate not to let go of him, afraid she would lose him to the darkness. God knew she'd hold him like that forever if it gave him even an iota of comfort.

"I think I'm gonna hit the sack," he said, his voice sounding so unexpectedly normal that it startled her. She took it as a signal to let go, and hastily pulled away from him. "But, uh, Merri?"

"Yeah?" He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable, embarrassed. Maybe now that he'd regained his control, he was shamed by everything he'd told her. Even despite her insistence that none of it was his fault.

"Would ya spend the night wi' me?"

She wasn't able to school her reaction in time, felt her eyes grow wide.

"Not-" LaSalle blurted out loudly and then paused, lowering his voice. "Not like that. Jus' watch over me."

The sadness that had never really left her heart returned to its full intensity at the desperate, exhausted expression on his face.

"I keep havin' nightmares," he said. "An' sometimes I can't wake up from 'em."

"I can do that, Chris," she said, squeezing his shoulder in a reassuring manner that had him looking at her, his pretty blue eyes filled with relief. "I want to do that for you."

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 **A/N: Yeah, I know. It's dark and twisted. But it just means the healing in the end is going to be all the sweeter…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Um… Not sure what to say. Is there anything I can say about this?**

 **WARNING: SLIGHTLY MORE EXPLICIT CONTENT THAN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER**

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Licorice flooded his mouth, the taste so overwhelmingly strong he thought the probing tongue might deposit a wad of masticated Black Jack gum against the inside of his cheek. It was an odd flavor, that intense spicy anise with a hint of sweetness. But god, was it good when the only thing he'd tasted for as long as he could seem to remember was those cardboard, sawdusty nutritional bars. Real food was a distant memory. And he knew he should hate it. He should hate this mouth on his, this tongue forcing its way inside to tease and stroke his own.

But he didn't.

Well, he did. He hated it. Hated those large hands pinning his to the mattress, the big, muscular body heavy on top of him. Hated the hips that bucked against him, the ridiculously sized cock rubbing hard against his own groin, naked and raw and exposed. Hated those deep, low growls and grunts that should belong to a bear or some other animal and not a man.

But he wasn't a man.

Not any sort of human man. He was a monster. A great big beast, all primal need and take, take, _take_.

Except he was touching Chris, too. Tenderly, affectionately. Caressing him. His traitorous nerves hummed with pleasure after the cold numbness that he thought he'd been doomed to suffer for eternity.

The touch of rough hands was better than never feeling the touch of a human hand again.

The uninvited taste of licorice strong in his mouth was better than never tasting again.

The heat of the large body was better than the cold -the incessant, bone-deep cold.

Even the fingers that began to violate him created unpleasant yet welcome sensation. Because dead men, men in cold, black, lonesome purgatory couldn't feel at all.

Large hands -more like paws- fell to the backs of his thighs, and he found himself complying to their coaxing, found himself lifting his head to continue the kiss as the mouth was drawn away from his, found his own hands reaching to grab hold of taut, smooth muscle, desperate to touch, to feel, found himself moaning, possibly in pain, possibly in pleasure as his body was penetrated.

And hated it.

And needed it. Needed to feel, thrusting against the violation, driving the beast's thick, hard flesh deeper inside, reveling in the overwhelming flood of sensation, of pleasure-pain, moaning with it.

"You like that, don't you, Pretty Boy?"

* * *

Chris LaSalle started awake in a cold sweat, panting heavily. There was a hand on him. There was a hand on him. It wasn't a dream, a nightmare. There was a hand on his shoulder. And he thought he might cry with the shame, the want mixed with the hate, the _need_.

"Chris? Chris?" But the voice. Soft, calm. A higher yet soothing timbre. A woman's voice. A woman's delicate hand on his bare shoulder. Both familiar. "You were having a nightmare."

"Brody?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Chris."

The bedside lamp blinked on with a click. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, a respectful, non-threatening distance away, leaning towards him slightly to allow her hand to perch on his shoulder as delicately as a butterfly lighting on a petal. Her big eyes were dark in the soft glow of the lamp, like bottomless pools. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but then pressed firmly together, into a thin line.

He didn't know what to say, either, just sat there, trying to catch his breath, becoming more and more uncomfortable as he truly realized the extent of his physical state. Idiot. He hadn't thought about that. Hadn't thought how... how he sometimes, sickeningly, woke up aroused to the point of aching because of the nightmares. All he had been able to think about was how he hadn't wanted to face the night alone anymore. But this, this was the last thing he wanted his friend to pay witness to, to how sincerely _fucked_ up he was, how a nightmare flashback of being sexually violated gave him a raging hard on.

"I think I need ta be alone," he said. Brody frowned at him, concern etching her features. She looked as lost as he felt, like she wanted to help him, but didn't know how, so would do anything he told her, asked of her. The disgusting thought of asking her to help him out with his current physical problem briefly flitted through his head, repulsing him further with self-hatred. He was such a sick bastard. But fuck, his balls ached, the need a beast in his groin clawing at his guts. "I'm all sweaty an' gross. Think I'm gonna take a shower."

"Alright," Brody said, studying him with an uncomfortable intensity. Shit. Could she see straight through him? He'd let her in earlier and was it like issuing a lifetime pass, allowing her to just stroll straight on in through the front gates of his soul? She squeezed his shoulder before removing her hand and rising to her feet. "I'll go home, then. Leave you alone."

Chris grimaced, closing his eyes tightly, as she began to walk away after gathering up her jacket from the chair where she'd been sitting up, watching over him. He briefly felt some annoyance, edged with anger. Why hadn't she woken him earlier, before... before he'd gotten all hot and bothered? But maybe there hadn't been any outward signs of his nightmare until it was too late. Damn. It hadn't been her fault. Just having her sitting there in his room, watching him sleep hadn't been enough.

But waking to her gentle touch and her soothing voice... He didn't want to be alone. Not after...

"No, wait, Mere, please," he said, causing her to pause at his bedroom door and turn back to him. "I don't really wanna be alone. I just... Just give me a little time, please. And then... And then I wanna talk. If ya- if ya wanna listen."

"Yes," she said, looking him straight in the eye. She was a rock, that woman. The good kind. The kind that withstood the tests of time. The kind that sheltered and protected ya. The kind that you built the foundation of your home upon. The best kind. "I'll just be fixing a cup of tea in your kitchen. Come find me when you're ready, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Mere."

She disappeared and he would've sighed in relief but for the fact that his cock was still painfully hard and straining against the fabric of the sweats he'd worn to bed.

Fuck.

He stared at the faucet momentarily, standing buck-ass naked in the porcelain claw foot tub, wondering if just maybe a cold shower, as frigid as an arctic pool would take care of his problem, and knowing it was too far gone even for that, let alone his capacity to will it away. Probably would hurt like hell considering he already ached, his engorged flesh raging for release, and then to have his balls trying to contract and crawl up inside of him beneath the icy onslaught of water. Ouch. No. Best he just do the nasty thing that had to be done. It wouldn't take much at this point, anyway.

He turned the shower to scalding hot instead, trying to burn off the phantom feeling of another man's sweat coating his skin.

Maybe he had to give in to what the flashbacks, the nightmares physically did to him. But he adamantly refused to let the memories in as he brought himself to climax.

He tried to think of some of the women he'd been with, but knew it never quite did the trick. Because they only reminded him of the reckless behavior that had led to his abduction, sent him back to that place, the memories he refused to let win. And there was no way in hell that he was gonna think of Savannah. They'd had good times, yes. Wonderful times. But he was never going to sully those memories by using them like that. And so he tried to daydream of some generic woman touching him. Delicate, slender fingers. Hands that could be so gentle and yet also firm when needed. A soft, tender touch, but not a timid one. Sure. Confident. Soothing.

Like Meredith Brody's beautiful hands.

He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. Not with her being the only true source of comfort he'd experienced in... months, really. Not with her being a friend whom he also respected. Not with her staying up all night just to guard his dreams. Her in his home, just a few yards or so away. Her with those perceptive eyes and an instinct that seemed to alert her whenever he was having a bad day. Her with all of her compassion and caring for him.

She might just hear him in the shower as he took care of his disturbing, disgusting problem. Hell, she probably didn't even need to hear him. She likely already just damn knew. Knew, and wanted to help him in any way she could. Maybe, curious and desperate to relieve his pain, she'd quietly approach the bathroom door, her footsteps as stealthy as a cat's. She'd listen a moment at the door, ashamed and also titillated by what she heard, what she knew he was doing. Intrigued and also sympathetic, so very empathetic as she was, she would be drawn to him, wouldn't be able to stay away. She always had his back when he needed her. And she'd have it this time, too. Literally, pressing herself up against him, her bare breasts flattening against his naked flesh as she wrapped her arms tightly about his chest, slid her hands down his stomach, slightly cool despite the torrent of hot water raining down upon them, claiming the task he'd set his own to completing, caressing and stroking him. She would press tender kisses to his shoulders, her talented fingers applying just enough pressure to make him squirm and groan, thrust into her firm yet soft-skinned grasp. Her other hand rubbing his stomach, fondling his balls, as she pumped him harder and faster until he-

Chris bit down on his bottom lip, swallowing the cry of relief and pleasure that tore from his chest as he climaxed under the ministrations of his own hand. His forehead hit the wall with a thump, the wet shower curtain sticking to his flesh like the caress of a clammy hand. Sobs, choking, debilitating. He likewise refused to give in to them, to let them leave his throat, to let _her_ hear. For she would know, wouldn't she? She would know what he'd done. How he'd used her, thoughts and fantasies of her to sate his demented lust, when he could not abuse another in that way. He'd used her, because Merri Brody was strong, and he knew she could handle being used like that. God, she might even be willing to be used for his sick relief, because her heart was as compassionate as it was resilient.

That made him feel worse.

And now, now he had to go and face her. The words struggled to come to him as he rehearsed what he'd say, the request he shouldn't make, but had to, could no longer live the way he was living. He'd already made it halfway there, to the only light at the end of the tunnel. And it would be foolish, cowardly and suicidal not to bravely forge ahead the rest of the way.

His stomach was a nervous knot as he toweled off and pulled on a fresh pair of sweats and a tee, slowly making his way towards the kitchen, and the woman waiting there.

 _Thank ya, Merri, for stayin' with me. But it wa'n't quite 'nough to keep the nightmares at bay. An' I was wonderin' if ya might be willin' ta hold me?_

Damn. No. That sucked. But he couldn't figure out how to ask without damaging what little remained of his pride. His stupid vanity. How it co-existed with the shame, how it hadn't been completely crushed in that horrific dungeon, he had no idea. Maybe it was what had helped him survive. Too proud to give up and die. But now it was also the source of his continual suffering.

He needed to learn to let go.

Merri Brody looked up at him from where she was sitting at his kitchen table, steaming mug of tea cupped in her hands. Her big, brown eyes were clear, but there was a redness to the pale skin of her cheeks that belied the tears she'd been shedding.

And he'd done that to her, too. Suddenly, he just wanted to hold her, nearly as much as craving that comfort she'd given him earlier in the day.

"Will ya sleep with me?"

Her eyes didn't go quite so wide with shock as they'd done before when he'd asked her to spend the night with him, perhaps because she well knew it wasn't sex he was after. Or romance. Just companionship. Friendship that could soothe in ways other forms of love could not. No demands, no pressure, just unconditional compassion.

"Of course," Brody said, looking at him as if she could see into the depths of his soul.

* * *

 **A/N: Poor, broken LaSalle… I think he needs some cuddles with his Brody…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Cuddles! Yes, this is your reward (and theirs) for surviving the nightmares.**

 **WARNING: SOME COARSE LANGUAGE AND REFERENCES TO ADULT SUBJECT MATTER. NOTHING EXPLICIT IN THIS CHAPTER.**

* * *

His body was warm, soft and heavy in the manner of those peacefully asleep. Honestly, she hadn't slept much, even with the man in her arms. Even though -despite the somewhat reserved vibe she knew she generated- she actually enjoyed cuddling with a warm body all through the night. This was different, though. Because she was worried about him. Because she feared she might fail him again, might not be able to protect him from the nightmare flashbacks that did terrible things to him. Oh, she was familiar enough with men to know when they were in an uncomfortably aroused state. And seeing him so frustrated and ashamed of his traitorous body... She had cried, desperately marshalling the tears as she fixed herself a cup of tea, waited for him to return from... _calming_ himself.

Merri allowed herself the indulgence of running her finger tips over his bare back, playing along his spine, exploring the trim muscles that lay beneath the smooth skin, along his shoulders down to just above the waistband of his pants, marred occasionally by a scar she didn't really want to contemplate.

They'd settled in together, beneath the blankets, both wearing a pair of his sweats and a worn cotton t-shirt. And it oddly hadn't been awkward at all, as he'd shyly asked her to lay on her back and she'd complied, opening her arms to accept him and he'd covered her body with his heavier one, pressing her deliciously into the mattress, even though he'd shifted slightly to the side to prevent his full weight from settling upon her. She hadn't objected. It'd been obvious, understandable that he needed to be the dominant in the physical contact between them. She'd wrapped her arms around his back as he'd curled himself about her, burying his face into her neck, gripping her waist with one of his strong hands, throwing a leg completely over hers.

They'd both awoken some hours later, sweating and uncomfortable from their combined body heat, entwined precisely as they'd originally settled into bed.

"Do you mind if I take these pants off, just sleep in your shirt?" Merri'd whispered quietly, feeling almost feverish from the heat.

"Not if ya don't have any objections to me takin' my shirt off."

They'd shed said clothing items, throwing all of the blankets off the bed so that only a sheet covered them as they'd snuggled down once more, this time him laying directly on top of her in a much more sensual manner that she had to fight to ignore. He was her friend. He needed the comfort of the contact to quell his nightmares, to soothe his latent anxiety. But her body liked men. Liked the feel of them, especially when they were lean and trim and gently muscled. And the musky scent of them was tinged with a heady, spicy aroma she couldn't quite identify.

He'd fallen asleep quickly when she'd stroked the back of his head and neck with one hand, the other rubbing gentle circles over the tense muscles of his back. But she'd stayed awake long after, whispering calming, soothing things to him when he'd started to squirm in his sleep. He'd settled down completely when she'd pressed her lips to his temple. And she'd finally been able to join him, waking only when the morning light had crept all the way across the old wooden floor and climbed into bed with them.

And now she was petting him in a manner that wasn't entirely platonic, savoring the feel of skin and muscle hot beneath her fingers, as hot as that certain spot deep in her belly was growing, instinctively stirred by the firm flesh pressing against her hip. Merri knew it was unintentional. The man was still sound asleep, unaware of the growing wakefulness of a certain part of him. It probably should make her uncomfortable, or embarrassed. But rather it pleased her, made her happy to know that this time when he woke with a stiff cock, it wouldn't be from a conditioned reaction to a night-terror-memory of being raped.

It was just a normal, natural thing. She did fear however that he would feel ashamed by it when he did wake, which he appeared to finally be doing, his face twitching, his fingers kneading her hip, a sigh passing his lips, a name. _Savannah_.

Merri froze, swallowed down the lump in her throat and decided to feign sleep herself, not to acknowledge the quiet whisper and subsequently instigate the heartbreak that would surely follow if she pointed the subconscious yearning out to the man slowly stirring from sleep.

After another minute, she felt his nose rub against the soft tee-shirt covering her collarbone, a thumb playfully caressing her hipbone. She opened her eyes, blinking slowly before looking up into the clear dark blue ones of her friend.

'Mornin', Lovely Agent Brody."

She smiled at him. He hadn't called her that in a while, the novelty of the teasing joke seemingly having worn off months and months ago. He appeared to be in quite a good mood.

"Sleep well?" she asked.

He grinned at her, shifting his weight slightly and abruptly freezing when his partially-stiff cock brushed against her hip. He licked his lips, his cheeks flushing a little pink before his facetious grin returned. "Sorry. Guess I slept like a rock..."

She raised her eyebrows at him, pleased to see him so happy, but also wary of his sense of humor.

"Woke up hard."

He ducked his head, chuckling slightly and -god help her!- worried his bottom lip with his teeth. He had such a pretty mouth. Damn. Stop. She was trying to be good here. Her friend was emotionally damaged, fragile. The last thing he needed was her pouncing on him because she couldn't get a handle on her libido.

Sighing contentedly, he flopped onto his back to lay beside her, and she suddenly felt extremely bereft without his warmth, the solid weight of him pressing into her as it'd done all night. Although she did realize that her right leg had gone a little tingly and numb and began to wiggle her toes in an attempt to restore circulation. Next time, she'd simply have to insist that he lay between rather than on top of her legs- No. Stop! Chris LaSalle was not a tasty morsel to bed, to use for pleasure. He was her friend. He was damaged and hurting. And he'd turned to her for comfort, for help, to listen, to be there for him.

She turned on her side, studied him as he stared at the cracked plaster ceiling. Was he thinking of Savannah? Or being pulled back down into that dark place? Merri wondered if she were in there at all amongst all of the troubled thoughts that doubtless plagued the poor man's mind?

It was horrible of her, she knew, but she also found herself intrigued by his psychological state. Had he been in denial the past few months? Had he finally opened up to her, maybe accepted what had happened to him? Could he begin to truly heal?

He seemed so strong, physically and of character, it was hard for her to believe, to understand how anyone had managed to break him. But they had. It hadn't been his fault in the least. But the self-hatred and shame was often apparent in his beautiful blue eyes (which she could never comment on now, not after the compliment had been used to abuse him). She wondered how he'd been coping. If he had nightmares constantly, so badly that he'd finally turned to her for help despite what remained of his pride, then how had he been dealing with them? He'd turned to denial and womanizing after Savannah died. And she knew that he felt responsible for his girlfriend's death. Then his subsequent behavior is what he used to blame himself for getting abducted and assaulted.

"You don't think you deserved it, do you?" she asked, placing her hand gently upon his chest, over his heart, in a gesture meant to convey that she didn't mean to harm with her inquiry.

Chris blew out a long breath.

"Like ya said, just because I was drunk off'n my ass don't mean I was askin' ta be raped."

She propped herself up on her elbow to look down into his face, currently bearing a carefully schooled expression she'd come to know rather well over the past few months. She missed the carefree young man he was when they'd first met over a year ago. But she loved her damaged friend just as fiercely as that more innocent, naive agent who'd won her over.

"No. I mean..." This was going to hurt him, no matter what she did. But if he kept ignoring, suppressing, wouldn't his psychological wound fester, just as a physical one would? "Do you think you deserved to suffer, to be broken like that, because of Savannah?"

Chris swallowed hard.

"I dunno," he said. "Mebbe."

Merri moved closer, hesitated, felt silly but knew she had to ask permission, knew she had to handle Chris with kid gloves, whether he thought such treatment belittled him or not.

"May I... uh..." He gave her a confused look, forcing her to put it into words. "Will it be alright if I lay on top of you?"

He appeared to give her request due consideration, despite how awkward it seemed that it was an issue they had to be wary of. But Merri only knew that he was okay with her touching his torso and head, and that he seemed good -content, soothed even- with cuddling when he was on top. She wasn't sure if having another person's weight pressing him into the mattress would freak him out. And apparently, neither was he.

"I think it'll be fine," he said, wrapping his arms around her when she proceeded to cover his body with her own. It was rather strange to be cuddling with the man she'd always kept at a physical arm's length. The only times they'd been anywhere near so close physically was for the rare hug and whilst sparring. But there was something natural about it. It didn't feel awkward at all when he wrapped his arms about her and she affectionately stroked his bare chest. She wanted to press her lips to his skin in quick, chaste kisses, all over his naked chest and neck and biceps, but she resisted that urge which bordered on the dangerous ones she was currently keeping at bay, desperate to keep suppressed, because,

"You're the closest friend I've had since Emily died."

His arms tightened around her, his lips placing a kiss on her temple.

"Ya've always had my back, Meredith Brody. An' I trust ya," he whispered into her ear. "Yer the only one I ever tole about what really happened ta me."

"Thank you," she said quietly, feeling the weight of such a burden, and the honor of it. "For trusting me."

"Ya earned it," he said, making her feel all warm with pleasure inside. They lay in silence for a few minutes, just being content in the moment, basking in their friendship.

"Ya smell good."

He'd buried his nose in her hair, just behind her ear and had proceeded to nuzzle down her neck before making his pronouncement. She laughed at the irony of the comment.

"All I can smell is you," she said. And it was the truth. His sweat. His laundry detergent. The lingering faint odor of his soap and deodorant. That musky male scent of him, earthy and a little bit spicy.

"Guess I just have an appealin' aroma," he said, teasing laughter in his voice. Merri decided it was her turn, shifting slightly to bury her face in his neck, nuzzling his throat down to the light sprinkle of soft hair on his chest. The urge to kiss, tongue and tease his flesh was damn near overwhelming but she refrained.

However, she failed to refrain from asking the question that popped unheeded into her brain, and immediately regretted it, as his whole body stiffened beneath her.

"Have you been with a woman since...?"

* * *

 **A/N: Foot-in-mouth, Merri Brody! Get your mind focused on your friend and not your physical attraction to him, or fascination with his emotional damage!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Not too awful much to say… Brody finds a solution to help her friend heal…**

 **WARNING: SMUT ( & BRIEF REFERENCES TO NON-CONSENSUAL SEX)**

* * *

Had he been with a woman since... What? Since he'd been drugged, tied up and raped like a defenseless one?

Anger flared hot inside of him, an overwhelming swell that wiped away everything else.

Her brown eyes were soft, not at all judgmental, accusing. Not even a hint of ridicule or even pity. But he just couldn't look at her. Chris gripped her arms and pushed her off from him, swinging his feet out of bed to sit on the edge of the mattress and bury his face in his hands.

He was prone to bouts of anger, he knew. He'd punched a hole in his bedroom wall two weeks after he'd been chucked into the middle of the woods like the unwanted parts of an animal carcass. The nightmares, the flashbacks had been especially vivid then. The self-hatred so acute that King had saved his life simply by holding onto his service weapon. A bullet would've been a quick and easy way out in the middle of the night when the shame of startling awake in the midst of a rape-flashback-induced wet dream was unbearable. Not only had the monster exhausted him to the point where he'd quit physically fighting, had broken his mind more than a little, but the sick bastard had conditioned him with an arousal response to being violated.

And that's what had persisted. Even after the logical part of his brain had accepted what had happened to him, had convinced him -mostly, anyway- that it hadn't been his fault. That he hadn't done anything wrong. That he'd survived. And that he was strong to have done even that. He couldn't move on, however. Not when he still had the nightmares, the flashbacks... and the sick, twisted physical response to them.

It was a lasting shame, a torture. He understood now why the bastard had let him live. The knowledge of the permanent damage he'd done to Chris, that his victim would be fucked up likely for years if not for the rest of his life... It was another type of control that got the sadist off.

A hand. A delicate hand, hesitantly touching the back of his neck, usually so certain and sure. Those hands of hers. They were like magic. Did she know that? That she could calm him with just a touch? He had no idea why. It didn't make no sense. But that didn't mean it wasn't true.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, feeling her cheek press against his bare arm.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Chris," she said. "I was out of line. I'm the one who owes you an apology."

"Nah," he said, more clearly, firmly. "Ya were just tryin' ta help. Ta make me talk about it. I know it ain't good ta keep it all bottled up inside. I just..."

"It's difficult," she said. "But you'll get through this. I know you will."

Her hand soothed him, rubbing his back in lazy circles as they sat there quietly in his bedroom, his bedroom filled with so many memories, so many horrors, so many delights, despairs, sorrows and contentment. The place was a bit like him, conflicting resonances bouncing off the walls, trapped inside a decaying inner space with a seemingly strong but failing exterior.

"I ain't been with a woman since..." He took a deep shuddering breath. "Since before I was abducted."

Chris found, as he had earlier, once you started talking to Meredith Brody, it only seemed to become easier and easier, until you found it more difficult to stop than to start. Must be part of her ninja-interrogator-jedi-mind-tricks. But she obviously employed them for good, genuinely trying to help his sorry ass.

"I was sleepin' with all them women to distract myself from Savannah's death. An' I just don't want that no more. That one night stand, _love 'em an' leave 'em'_ thing... It won't help me with this. There ain't no escapin' what he done to me."

"Then face it down, Chris," Merri said, passion edging her mild tone. "You can kick its ass. I know you can. You're stronger than he thought."

Her hand, sometimes so gentle and seemingly delicate, was firm this time as she slipped off the bed to kneel before him, catching his chin in her sure grasp, ceasing the doubtful shaking of his head, forcing him to look down into her big, dark eyes.

"You are strong," she said. "You got this."

He laughed bitterly when she released his chin.

"Ya don't understand," he said. "He made me want it, made my body want it so badly that I still get fuckin' aroused by the damn unwanted memories of it. I ain't never gonna be of use ta a woman agin."

Suddenly, her mouth was on his, her lips pressing against his in a manner that was most definitely not chaste. It wasn't forceful or greedy, more affectionate and yet still tinged with lustful interest. He hadn't realized that she found him sexually attractive. He was aware, as was she, that he'd checked her out on several occasions, found her to be a strikingly gorgeous woman. But he had had no clue that- _Mm…_ Her lips were soft and warm, and parted in invitation. She had initiated the kiss but wasn't leading, letting him control the encounter entirely, letting him slip his tongue past her soft, warm lips into her mouth to taste her. Stale coffee and black tea, earthy and bitter, but also a hint of sweetness entirely her own.

He kissed her for long minutes, losing himself, losing all of his troubled thoughts, his worries and apprehensions. Until finally they broke apart, leaving her lips pink, wet, and kiss-swollen. It was an erotic sight, and he felt his cock stir in interest even as reality settled back in with a thousand doubts. He couldn't do this. Not with her. Not with anyone. But especially not with her... Right?

"We can't do this?" he said, his voice all question and no confidence.

"Chris, you're my friend and I love and respect you," she said, staring up at him, having settled back onto her knees before him. "And I want to do anything, _anything_ I can to help you... help you regain your confidence, find yourself again, squash the fears and doubts that plague you, help you be _you_ again."

He licked his lips nervously, inadvertently drawing in the lingering taste of her. She made him feel so... _content_. So at ease. And god knew he wanted to know, was desperate to know whether he could ever make love again. He still wanted the things the man he'd been before dreamed about, finding a nice woman, settling down, having a family. It was going to be Savannah. _Had been_ Savannah. Oddly with all that had happened, he'd finally seemed to come to terms with the loss of her. Maybe because now the prospect of truly moving on seemed an impossibility (which broke his yearning heart). He never had to worry about betraying her memory, because he'd never love another woman again. Never get married and have a family.

It'd made things easier.

But wouldn't this complicate them? What Merri Brody was offering... it would muddle things, mess up what he'd accepted was his life, his fate. Only, he hadn't really wanted to accept it, had he? Because he'd opened up to her, invited her in, sought the comfort of her. A friend. A true friend.

With no expectations. And all understanding.

If he ever wanted to have a healthy sexual experience again, it would have to be with her, wouldn't it? Not only was she willing, looking at him with those absolutely gorgeous dark eyes of hers in an almost pleading way, but she was the only one who could deal with any… _incidents_ that might occur. If he freaked out, got violent, he knew she could handle herself, and _him_. And if it turned out that he couldn't perform, then, well, he honestly wouldn't be all that ashamed. Not with her. She'd seen him at his fucking worst. Well, not the absolute worst. But he'd told her about it, shared that terrible trauma with her. She hadn't judge or pitied him then. And he knew she wouldn't now.

But still.

She was rubbing his thighs through the soft cotton of his sweats, just above his knees, when he met her gaze once more, the objection on his lips, that they were friends. Good friends. And having sex wasn't something the kind of friends they were, well, did. Except, he couldn't imagine being with anybody else now. He would never love a woman like he'd loved Savannah. But he did love Merri, in a different, non-romantic sort of way that didn't preclude his physical attraction to her.

"Anything you want me - _need me_ \- to do," she said. "Please let me help you, Chris."

Before the skittish part of his brain could object again he was reaching for her, pulling her up to kiss her lovely mouth once more. Those wonderful kisses, so different from kissing any other woman and yet tinged with a familiar lustful sensation humming beneath, in the blood flowing through his veins.

When his hands moved from her face and neck, down her back to grip her waist, she seemed to take this as a signal to escalate, getting to her feet, continuing to nip at his lips and thrust her tongue against his as she climbed up into his lap, straddling him. And, good god, she felt good in his lap like that, all warmth and energy.

"Lay back?" It wasn't a command. The woman was certainly capable of issuing those. No, it was a request, softly uttered in a breathless way between kisses.

"Alright." He relented to her request and the coaxing of her hands on his bare chest, lying down on the mattress, and pulling her along so that she was hovering over him, running her hands over his stomach as she began to kiss her way down his throat and collarbones before teasing his nipples with her tongue.

Sealing her mouth over his flesh, she sucked and nipped at him, sending little jolts of sensation through his body as her fingers played over his side and stomach, southward.

 _He'd_ played with Chris, too. That's what part of the problem was, what worried him that he wouldn't be able to handle having sex again. It wasn't just that his body had been invaded, that he'd been penetrated forcibly, repeatedly. It was that the man -the monster- had used his mouth, his hands on Chris, making him feel good against his will. Merri wanted to make him feel good, now. And he wanted to let her, but-

"What is it, Chris?" She'd stopped teasing his flesh in that skilled and sensuous way of hers. Instead she was staring down at him, all concern. He had been right about her uncanny ability to read him, to know him so damned well. "This isn't just about having sex. It's about trust. It's about what you need."

Chris swallowed the lump in his throat, nodded but didn't say anything. How could he tell a woman he was in the middle of foolin' around with about the things a rapist had done to him?

"You can tell me anything," she said, locking eyes with him. "This is only between us. And will always remain only between us."

"It's just..." Damn. This was impossibly hard. But he'd already made the decision to do this with Merri, hadn't he? "I wa'n't always... on the _receivin'_ end, if ya know what I mean?"

She nodded. But she couldn't really understand.

"He did other things to you, made you do things, like what you'd do with a woman, more like you were in a consensual encounter. Fucked with your head."

Okay. So she did understand. He nodded.

"Alright," she said. "Then tell me, Chris. Tell me what to do, what we can do that won't make you uncomfortable. Absolutely anything. Or we can stop. We can stop whenever you want."

He reached up, pulled her down into a kiss. Her kisses were an entire universe in their own right. The one in which he existed, in which he was constantly plagued by doubt and shame, in which he'd been abused and tortured and ripped apart... it melted away when her mouth was on his. It was just her. Her warmth, her scent, her playful side, her energy and her affection, pouring into him, filling him.

He wanted... He wanted to make love to her. They'd started off that way, but somewhere it had turned into her trying to make him feel good, stimulus designed to elicit a specific response, what _he'd_ done to him. He wanted… He didn't want to just feel a sexual rush. He wanted to make love. And he knew that now, knew the difference, as she pulled back, looking at him with confusion in her dark eyes, as if it bewildered her that he'd wanted to stop yet kissed her as if his life depended on it.

"Lemme lead, I think," he said.

She smiled at him. Leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. "Lead on."

"Shirt. Off," he ordered, tugging at the hem of his worn old black tee and subsequently freezing when it cleared her head and flew off to be lost amongst his bedroom clutter. Oh, god. She was beautiful. Suddenly, he wanted her naked. Very naked. _Good' n' nekked._

Pulling her flush to him, he held her tight to his chest, rolling about with her until he had her almost where he wanted her, rubbing his face against the smooth skin of her neck, making her laugh. Her voice wasn't particularly high, but it was undeniably feminine, and so was her melodic laughter. He fucking loved the sound of it. By the time he got off from her and the bed, her skin was flushed and the movement of her chest noticeable as she fought to regain her breath. Her lovely, large breasts bobbed and quivered within the confines of her burgundy satin bra.

It was classy but still functional a garment. And it was so her. Especially in that she was sporting a matching pair of panties.

They both had to go.

He climbed up onto the bed, grabbing her legs and dragging her to the middle of the mattress, making her yelp then giggle again. It was so strange to hear Merri Brody giggle. But only at first. Now it seemed the most natural thing to have the woman half-naked lying in the middle of his bed, smiling, glowing with light-hearted amusement.

Fuckin' perfection.

"What ya think yer grinnin' at like a big ol' jack o'lantern?" he asked, crawling up her body, placing a kiss between her collar bones at the base of her throat. Her fingers, slender, slightly cool, so small and light, pet the back of his neck, rubbing against the nap, sending an odd little chill down his spine, as he claimed her mouth again, seeking and receiving one of _those_ kisses of hers. He snuck his hands beneath her and she giggled into his mouth, before she realized what he was after and arched her back, letting him unclasp her bra. He pulled away, settled back onto his knees, stripping the garment off and tossing it to be lost along with his shirt and the rest of her clothes.

Damn.

"What was that?" she asked, failing to suppress the laughter in her voice. Apparently, he'd said that aloud.

"Damned if ya ain't the mos' gorgeous woman I ever seen."

It wasn't a lie. Or an embellishment to please the woman who was giving him so much, trying to make him whole again -or as she seemed to think, just make realize he was whole. Meredith Brody _was_ the most strikingly gorgeous woman he had ever seen in his life. Savannah, she'd been the most beautiful. Her lovely, lithe body, her pretty eyes and smile, her sweet temperament. And Meredith Brody, the most gorgeous, attractive even purely on just a physical level. He hadn't ever needed to see her naked like she was now, in his bed, to know she had a gloriously feminine body. Slender and toned. Large, supple breasts flattening against her supine chest, the curve of her waist that flared into full, round hips and her long, shapely legs.

Chris couldn't resist the pull of those pink nipples topping white, creamy mounds like cherries on a sundae. Restraining himself, he took the time to gently cup her breasts, which were far more than a handful, rubbing his thumbs slowly over her nipples, watching the amused expression on her face change into a more sober one of pleasure. And then he used his mouth on her, tonguing, and then sucking and biting first one nipple and then the other, mirroring the technique she had used on him earlier, being rewarded with gasps and whimpers, her body squirming beneath him.

Being with a woman, making love to one, it was nothing like what _he_ had done to him, and Chris found himself enjoying the experience immensely, looking forward to when he sunk his cock into her and achieved a climax inside the undeniably feminine body of his obliging friend.

But first... he kissed his way down her belly, which was flat but supple, a beautiful, gentle curve over the womb buried inside. Another giggle burst out of her when he dipped his tongue into her navel, before he continued along the arc of her flesh, reaching the edge of her burgundy satin panties, looking like wine against the cream of her skin.

They had to go.

She willingly accommodated him, raising her hips. And having discarded the last remnant clothing her gorgeous body, he found himself beside her feet, grabbing one to place a kiss at her ankle. It was very tempting to kiss his way up the inside of her silky-smooth legs -she must have just recently shaved or waxed or whatever she did- but he found himself staring at her lady parts. She had shaved or waxed her bikini-line, too, but she'd left the thatch of dark curls covering her pubic bone otherwise untouched. Did she know that he preferred women that way? Savannah likewise hadn't done unnecessary grooming. Most of the women he'd been with when he was whoring about, they shaved or trimmed it down to practically nothin'. A couple had been completely hairless down there, and it had disturbed the hell outta him. Why would any man wanna be with a woman whose pussy was as naked and unnatural as a hairless cat? Or the more disgusting comparison, as smooth and vulnerable as a prepubescent girl. It seemed perverted somehow.

But not Merri. Everything about her was as naturally feminine as a man could ever want. And Chris was drawn unwaveringly to that most female part of her. Grabbing both of her ankles, he tugged her down so that her gorgeous round ass was right at the edge of the mattress, making her squeak in surprise. He could see her fully now, the pink flesh of her already swollen and glistening with moisture, inviting him.

He met her eyes briefly. Hers were so dark he couldn't tell where her dilated pupils ended and the irises began, but they seemed to be inviting him as much as her body was. He fell to his knees, burying his face in the dark curls between her thighs, which were much softer than he'd expected. He nuzzled her pubic bone, breathing in the heady scent of her. She smelled of sweat and lust and _woman_. Savannah had always insisted upon washing up for him -he never knew why, when she never demanded the same of him, guess she liked his man-stink- and her soft auburn curls had smelled of strawberries. But always still tinged with that natural female aroma. Merri hadn't showered since the previous day, and it was strong on her. It honest to god made him salivate a little.

"What are you-" She laughed when he tickled her with his nose buried in her dark thatch. She gasped when he abruptly licked her, running his tongue over the entire length of those pink, swollen, inviting folds, tasting her.

"Chris, you don't have to-" Her voice, already husky, cut off in a pleased moan when he ran his tongue over her again, probing into her flesh a little this time, seeking a deeper sampling. She tasted like most women did, that natural sort of soil and freshwater flavor, but tinged with some tanginess and a little bit of sweet all her own. Not that he'd actually tasted that many women. He only did it with ones that were special to him. And for obvious reasons, the last had been Savannah. That wasn't to say that he wasn't a firm believer in foreplay. It was over half the fun of sex, wasn't it? He just tended to use his hands instead on women he wanted to bed and not make love to. But Merri, he wanted to love her thoroughly, was enjoying it more than he probably should, given... well, everything.

But with her sighs and gasps, and (surprising, girlish) giggles, her warm and willing and responsive body, her dark, affectionate eyes and lovely smile, she took it all away. He found himself able to think of Savannah. Even of his terrible sexual experiences with that evil man. Without any of the pain. Merri seemed to be a balm for it, soothed it so it no longer hurt. It would be difficult not getting lost in the comfort of his wonderful friend forever. But just for a little while should be okay. She was just teaching him that he could live again.

He used his hands on Merri, having to grip her thigh with one to hold her in place, the other exploring her flesh with his fingertips, finding that hidden little treasure that made her hips jerk, and promptly applied his tongue to it. He only wished that he could watch the expressions on her face, the contraction of muscles beneath the skin of her body, her hands... Were her fingers twisted up tight into the sheet? Or was she massaging her breasts? Sucking on, biting a knuckle as he suckled her sensitive flesh?

Her throaty whimpers transformed into suppressed moans and she was beginning to move slowly against him, her hips seeking a friction, a penetration he wasn't yet giving her. If his tongue wasn't otherwise occupied he would've teased her, made her tell him what she wanted, made her beg for it. Instead, he simply sunk a finger into her, sliding easily up to the knuckle. She was so fucking wet and yielding, her body preparing itself for penetration, for his penetration, her inner muscles loosening, wanting to stretch themselves around his cock. He felt himself growing harder and harder as he sensed her building climax, her moans growing louder, sharper, the tension quivering in the muscles of her thighs. He pushed two more fingers into her, found he didn't have to do any of the work as she bucked against his hand, riding his digits on her own as he switched from running his tongue over her swollen bud to nipping at the hyper-sensitive flesh with his teeth.

When she swiftly came to climax, her entire body tensing, her insides tugging at his fingers, her heels digging into the edge of the mattress and her whole body arching off the bed, Chris wasn't sure if the noise she made would be considered a sharp moan or a scream. She stayed frozen like that for several seconds before she collapsed back onto the mattress, breathing heavily, the tension visibly fleeing her muscles, leaving her a soft supple, glowing, satisfied woman lying on his bed. She was making little post-orgasmic whimpers of pleasure, and he studied her for nearly a minute, despite the now very insistent need tugging at his gut. Her soft, so kissable lips were curved up in a beatific sort of smile, her eyes gentle closed, the dark lashes laying on her flushed cheeks like raven feathers on snow. Her very ample breasts trembled as her breathing went from ragged to smooth, her nipples still puckered and erect. One hand was tracing slow circles low on her belly, the other threaded in her hair. Her thighs came together and parted in a slow dance, rubbing against one another and her groin as they met, revealing the glistening dew of her release as they parted, her pink folds still swollen and damper than ever.

He was so goddang hard it hurt. But unlike his experiences over the past six months, he didn't feel an overwhelming shame about it, like he had even with the womanizing, let alone the other... Although, he admittedly was just as eager for release. More than just for that moment of ecstasy, if he was completely honest, but eager to bury himself inside of Merri's warm, wet, supple flesh. Licking the taste of her off from his fingers, he went to his nightstand, pulled the drawer open and took a condom out of the stash there, examining it briefly to make sure it hadn't expired. He'd never taken any of the women to his home. And Savannah had been on the pill.

Whether or not the same could be said for Merri, Chris couldn't be absolutely positive he was clean. The tests had come back clear, but there were a couple, like HIV, that only time would tell. The doctors seemed extremely optimistic, though. And out of all the problems he had plaguing him, he refused to worry about it too awful much. But either way, he donned the rubber before he turned back to find Merri's round, dark eyes studying him with keen interest.

He licked his lips, suddenly feeling quite nervous.

"Ya still wanna do this?" he asked.

"Come here," she said, reaching out to him. He climbed onto the bed and into her arms, settling between her legs, his cock pressing into her belly. She cupped his face in both hands, staring into him with those perceptive, warm, gorgeous eyes of hers. "You are my friend, Chris. And I love you. You're by far the best person I have ever met in my life. You've got a good heart. You're a good person. You're loyal. And compassionate. And intuitive. And smart. And god help me, I even like your silly sense of humor."

He had to look away, the emotion threatening to turn into tears. How did she know that's what he needed to hear, that it was his self-worth that had been damaged more than anything else, more than any question of his manhood or his strength? How did she know not to compliment his body or his other physical traits (which had been used against him as he was being raped)? How did she know that her kind, loving words would make him want to be inside of her even more badly, want to be as close as he could get to her, completely wrapped up in her soothing embrace?

He kissed her on the mouth again, losing himself in her, as he reached a hand between them, exploring her, testing her, curious whether she'd completely tightened up from the orgasm he'd given her or if he could just- He groaned as his fingers sunk easily into her once more.

She was so unbelievably ready for him. It was an intoxicating rush on par with a double-shot of quality whiskey. She fit him like a glove, like she was made for him, just a hint of resistance giving way and allowing him to sink deeply inside of her. It just wasn't right, feeling this fucking good. Her hands on his shoulders, her thighs sliding against his sides, caressing him, her lips parted in a soft moan as he withdrew completely, just so he could fully experience the penetration again. He did it several more times, the act becoming as much a challenge in his self-control as it was a transcendent pleasure.

She moaned his name in a noise that was more akin to a whine.

"Please..."

He nipped at her slender, elegant neck.

"Please what, Mere?" Her neatly manicured fingernails dug into his shoulders and she bit her lip, refusing to beg. "Ya said anythin' I want..."

She moaned again, as he continued to pump into her in the agonizingly slow pace, watching the tension in her face, her eyes squeezing shut, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her nose wrinkling in the same way it did when she laughed.

And then she opened her eyes, looked directly into him, and - _fuck_! She'd clenched her inner muscles around him, squeezing him tightly in a devastating hold that stole all of the little restraint he'd been mustering. Fine. If that's how she wanted it, but-

"I'm not gonna last long," he said, beginning to set a brutal pace, filling his bedroom with the sounds of labored breathing, grunts of effort, Merri's little hiccupping cries, and the smacking of skin against skin.

"It's okay, Chris," she whispered in a breathless, husky voice, one arm draped over the back of his neck. Somehow, she managed to pull her knees up towards her chest, allowing him to sink deeper into the warm, wet heat of her. The hand that had been clutching his bicep snaked around his back, and she hugged him as snugly to her as possible while she clenched her muscles around him once more, squeezing him and drawing him even further inside, whispering into his ear, "I've got you."

The orgasm tore through him, a blinding wave of pleasure that consumed everything and left absolutely nothing its wake.

When reality reasserted itself, he was still lying on top of her, buried inside of her. And she was still hugging him tightly, her hands stroking his shoulders and back, her lips placing soft kisses against the side of his face. He groaned, long and low.

"You okay?" she asked quietly.

"Yup." He pulled out of her, rolled onto his back with another groan. God, he was spent. His whole damn body. But not in an aching, painful way. In a pleasant, soft, _relieved_ sorta way. "Far better than okay, Mere."

"Good." He glanced over at her as she stretched those long graceful legs of hers out straight, her equally elegantly formed arms reaching above her head, her palms flattening against his headboard as her entire body tensed, and then relaxed with the sigh escaping her lips. He'd never noticed before how goddang cat-like she was. And apparently, rather flexible, too. God, what she'd done, how she'd made him feel...

"Sorry," he said, feeling a little guilty. But not an ounce ashamed by what they'd done. Just guilty for what he hadn't done.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," she said, turning on her side, and running a hand down his chest.

"But I didn'... I didn' get ya off, did I?" Rather than creating an awkward moment, the woman fucking smiled at him in that patient, affectionate way of hers.

"Not the last time, no," she said. "But I'm still feeling that orgasm you gave me with that ridiculously talented tongue of yours."

Chris felt himself blush, mostly in pleasure, a little bit in embarrassment that they were actually openly discussing their sexual exploits. He wasn't used to it. For a therapist, Savannah had had a weird hang-up about talking dirty.

"So let's just call it even?" she said with a Cheshire grin. "And we can get you cleaned up."

Before he could object, she was already hopping off his bed (How did she still have the energy?) and headed out his bedroom door, presumably towards the bathroom.

"Wait!" he called after her, but he could already hear the water running. Sighing, he forced himself to get up and take care of the soiled condom before his attentive friend-lover could return and insist on doing it for him. Crazy woman.

Besides he had a better idea than just using a washcloth and a towel. His energy levels seemed to return as he considered just what he could do to Merri Brody, naked in the tub with him. It was a little strange, he supposed, as he informed her of what he intended and she agreed with a mock 'put-upon' expression, that being with her could put him so at ease when everything he'd tried over the past few months, the past half a year really, to find even a moment of peace had failed so entirely.

Very soon, his home was filled with the sounds of laughter and splashing. And even if he could only exist in this universe for a short while, he would take it. It was so much better than the one he'd been living in up to even just a few hours ago.

He hoped it remained.

* * *

 **A/N: Hopefully, the emotional path here makes sense and it didn't read as too much or too contrived. (Simple getting them into bed together was not at all the purpose in this. I hope I was able to convey that, even if I didn't shy away from writing the smutty parts.)**

 **A/N2: So LaSalle seems content for the moment… But what effect is all of this having on Brody?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: So there is more to this darker fic… And this next chapter ended up quite lengthy (primarily smutty). But here it is.**

 **WARNING: CONTAINS MATURE SUBJECT MATTER (but if you've made it this far…)**

* * *

It wasn't really butterflies as much as maggots squirming about in her stomach, an unpleasant wriggling sensation that made her both nauseas and anxious as she stood beside her boss and friend, tapping the toe of her boot involuntarily on the grey tile floor, the fluorescent light directly overhead of the nurse's station flickering the bulb's death cries.

"Chris-to-pher La-Salle," Pride said, over-enunciating, since it was the third time he had to give the man's name. "He's one of my agents."

"We don't have any patient of that name registered in the hospital," the plump nurse in kitten-print scrubs said, her patience obviously growing thin.

"You all, called us." Pride's patience was also wearing thin, which was saying something. But Merri couldn't blame him. Their friend had been missing for 32 days. Honestly, they all thought he was dead, even though they'd never said so, all refused to acknowledge it. The office had become a horribly soulless place inhabited by ghosts rather than people, ones who wallowed in guilt and that awful kind of meta-mourning of those with loved ones who'd simply disappeared.

Except, they'd known what happened to him... Sort of... They'd tracked down his original abductor by tracing his drinking circuit the night he disappeared. But they'd been too late. The stalking, human trafficking creep was dead. They'd found the remains of LaSalle's clothes in a burn barrel nearby. Merri stuck her hand in her front trouser pocket, fingering the charred medal she'd taken out of evidence, kept in her pocket and found herself touching multiple times a day, a nervous tick she'd developed. It should've gone to Cade or Chris' mother. Or his sister, she supposed. But it was Savannah who'd given it to him (well, her father in the deceased woman's stead). And it had been Emily's necklace that it hung on, around his neck. The necklace had been destroyed with the burning, just a few beads sifted out of the ashes. Not enough ashes to be the man's remains. And besides, the clothes weren't completely burned, so not a fire hot enough to cremate a human body.

It had been enough that Pride refused to accept the idea that his young friend was dead.

But they'd had no witness to question. No clue what had happened to Chris LaSalle besides being jumped by their dead suspect as he stumbled by an ATM camera at 2:17am, his sluggish resistance likely due to a drug being slipped into one of his drinks earlier in the evening. They hadn't been able to determine when, at which bar, or by whom. The seemingly helpful footage was only useful insofar that it showed him being abducted.

She hadn't wanted to, but Merri had honestly given up. In her heart, she quietly mourned her friend, hated herself for giving him time and space, for waiting until he came to her, when he was ready, if he wanted to talk, to grieve and be comforted by her. He hadn't. Which would've been no big deal. But he hadn't turned to Pride or Cade, either.

And then, just a matter of hours ago, they'd gotten the call from Something-Or-Other Memorial Hospital in Who-The-Hell-Cared Arkansas. (Merri still wasn't retaining details. Shock probably.) A man had wandered out of the woods the previous night, naked, looking like he'd been beaten. A Good Samaritan had stopped when they'd seen him lying on the side of the road, called for help. They'd roused him at the hospital to provide medical attention, but then they'd let him sleep. They hadn't gotten his name and a number to call from him until the middle of the day when he came around.

Pride explained all of the information that was given to him over the phone, that had caused him to run for the SUV, Brody sprinting and hopping in the passenger seat before he could tear out of New Orleans, speeding all the way to the hospital.

"That sounds like our John Doe. Lemme get the doctor," the nurse said.

John Doe? Merri swallowed, rubbed her thumb over the raised metal image of St. Christopher again. And again. And again. Praying, even though being raised secularly, she had no idea how to go about it.

The maggots continued to squirm in her stomach. The light flickered overhead.

"I apologize," a tallish man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a lab coat said, appearing in the hall, trailing the plump nurse behind. "We haven't updated his file yet."

"Can we, see him?" Pride asked, his tone holding as much anxious excitement as was boiling in Merri's blood.

"I'm afraid not."

No. No. He hadn't died on them, after all. He'd just come back from the dead. That would just be too damned cruel. No. That- She-

Someone made a pathetic whimper, and Merri realized it was herself when Pride's hand came to rest at the small of her back, warm and supportive. How wasn't it shaking? How wasn't he shaking? How could he continue to talk with the doctor as if his heart wasn't breaking?

"Why not?" he asked.

"He doesn't want to see you." The doctor didn't look entirely unsympathetic, but there was a firm professionalism to his tone.

"I don't understand," Pride said, frowning.

"Mr. LaSalle was in pretty bad shape when he was brought in." Merri tried to scrutinize the man's face for any sign revealing the severity of her friend's injuries. "He's requested no visitors."

"Well, tell him, too damn bad," Pride said. "We need to see him, with our own eyes, know that he's alive."

Merri didn't hear the doctor's response. She was already running down the hall towards where a uniformed officer was standing outside a closed door.

"Wait a-" The man tried to stop her, and she paused long enough to shove her badge in his face, leaving it with him to read more closely before she pushed open the door and-

It wasn't a patient's room like she'd expected. It was the morgue, cold and harshly lit with the same sort of flickering, failing fluorescent lights as the nurse's station. And laid out on the slab in the middle of the room was her friend.

 _Oh, god._

His skin was pale and grey and he was bruised all over, teeth marks livid on cold, lifeless skin. She didn't want to, but she walked up to him, his body all torn to pieces like he'd been savaged by a great, mad wolf, large hunks of flesh torn from his bones. His face, however, was unmarred, just pale and still. She gently caressed the cold, dry skin of his cheek.

His eyes opened, causing her to scream and try to step back, but he'd grabbed her wrist with his hand that was still in tact (mostly), tugged her stumbling down close as he stared into her with his eyes so dark a blue they were black rather the than milky and lifeless of s corpse.

"This is your fault," he said.

...

Her whole body jerked when she was plunged into wakefulness, opening her eyes wide and sucking in a sharp breath. A worried face with gorgeous blue eyes filled her field of vision and somehow calmed her even though they'd terrified her in the nightmare. Nightmare. It had only been a bad dream. Chris LaSalle was alive and whole, heat radiating off his body as he hovered over her, strong hands on her shoulders.

"Ya alright, Mere?"

Yes. Her voice didn't work, dry and strained by her tense sleep. She swallowed, cleared her throat.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm okay. Just a bad dream."

Chris lay back down, but pulled her along with him, wrapping his arms about her, burying his face in the side of her neck, nuzzling and kissing her there.

It felt so good, even with the remnants of that night terror a lingering dread in the back of her mind, a small knot in her chest.

"Wanna tell me 'bout it?" His voice was a whisper, but she knew the weight of those words. How could she not share her fears with him, when she'd pried his out of the dark recesses of his soul?

"I would," she said. "But..."

"Was 'bout me." It was silly to think she could try keeping it from him. He wasn't a stupid man. And when it came to her, he seemed to possess an uncanny intuition.

"Yes." Her voice was but a whisper, her throat feeling constricted as she considered her nightmare, the strange mixture of flashback and pure terror, what had led to it.

"What d'ya need, Merri?" he asked, holding her close, the scent of him strong after a warm night in bed together. And immensely comforting.

"To apologize," she said, fighting the lump in her throat.

"What?" She couldn't see his face, having buried her own in his chest. "Why?"

"I failed you." Her voice was a throaty, strained whisper, but his hold on her loosened and she knew he heard. He agreed with her, didn't he? He was going to push her away just when-

"Why would ya go 'n' say that, Mere?" he asked, trapping her with his intense blue gaze, his hands coming up to cup her face. "You ain't never failed me. Never."

"We should've found you, saved you," she said. "I shouldn't have given up on you. I shouldn't have let myself think you were-"

She squirmed trying to turn her face away from his sympathetic blue eyes as the tears began to roll down her cheeks, but he refused to let go.

"No," he said. "Don't feel guilty. Please don't pity me. Yer the only one who ain't never looked at me like-"

"I don't pity you," she said. "You're strong. You're a survivor. But I failed you. I-"

Finally, he released her face, pulling her tight to him once more, and she sobbed into his chest for awhile. He never stopped talking to her, though. Gentling words. Kind words she didn't feel she deserved.

"This wa'n't yer fault 'nymore than 'twas mine, Merri. And ya've done so much fer me. I can never repay ya."

She cried herself out. All of the self-hatred and guilt she'd kept bottled up. All of the pain of seeing her friend's suffering. And he held her the entire time, soothed her. Eventually, she was able to unbury her face from his now drenched t-shirt so that she could face him once more, look him in the eye.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he frowned, looked like he were going to protest her apology for the dozenth time, but she cut him off. "I got your shirt all wet."

He grinned, obviously relieved. And she felt an additional guilt, another form of guilt, for burdening him with her own suffering. She had no right to do that. He'd endured so much worse, was living with such a severe trauma.

"It's okay, Mere," he said. "Like ya tole me before, ya have the right ta feel whatever way ya feel."

She smiled wanly at him.

"You're amazing Chris," she said. "And I am sorry for breaking down on you like that."

"Ya jus' needed some comfortin'..." Something shifted in the way he was staring at her. "Wanna make love agin?"

 _What?_

Merri stared at him, into those oh-so-unbelievably-gorgeous blue eyes of his, trying to figure him out. He put on such a front for the world, of a simple guy with a simple personality and simple dreams. But she'd learned better than that. Even from day one there'd been hints about the complexity that lay beneath the 'good ol' boy' exterior. And even now, well over a year and a half later, there were things about him, times when she couldn't understand what was going on in his head.

She hadn't expected in her wildest dreams that he would describe what they'd done last night as 'making love'. Not because she believed it was untrue. For her, it had been an act of love, a demonstration of how much she cared about her friend, an attempt to prove to him that he could be physically intimate with a woman again. His insecurity and self-doubt on that front had been apparent, even if she hadn't discerned whether it was from the rape or the loss that had torn out his heart. Well, not all of his heart. Just a huge portion of it.

And yet he had been so damned affectionate with her last night. And now, now he was holding her, almost cradling her in his arms, trying to comfort her because she'd had a nightmare. A nightmare about his destruction, his torture and suffering. And there was nothing more in the world she would like than to kiss him again, feel the vitality in his lips and tongue, in his hands as he caressed her naked skin, in his flesh as he filled her. But-

"Or... it was jus'... jus'... a one-time thing, wa'n't it?" he asked. The set of his jaw and mouth displayed firm acceptance. But the depths of his eyes revealed that sadness he always suffered at any rejection, real or perceived. (She wondered if it had to do with a certain absent father.)

"No," she said, snaking her arms around his waist to prevent him from physically withdrawing. "I mean, you don't owe me anything more. There was no obligation intended in it. I did it because I care about you and you needed it."

His tongue emerged from between his lips, wetting them as he seemed to consider her words. She felt a flush heat her face as she remembered what that tongue had done to her the previous night.

"Am I allowed ta return the favor?" he asked, cupping her face with his hands, staring into her with those damned devastatingly captivating eyes of his. This time it was Merri who licked her lips, her mouth having gone dry, her palms a little sweaty, as if she were about to kiss a boy for the first time. How could a man, who was younger and likely less experienced than her (even with all of the womanizing he'd gotten in during those few months) make her as nervous and excited as a virginal schoolgirl?

"Only if you want to," she said, her voice shockingly timid. Damn it, she was a grown-ass woman, an equal partner to this man, in their working relationship, in their friendship, in bed, too. At least, that's how she wanted it to be... That was, if it were to be, which it didn't have to, not if he didn't- _fuck it_!

She pulled him into a kiss, a dirty one, sucking at his bottom lip, nipping at him until he thrust his tongue into her mouth and she sucked at it instead, making him moan, feeling the sound rumble in his chest. His hands slipped lower, groping her ass, and then they were rubbing bodily against one another while they made out. His hands, his kisses were eager but not needy, excited and playful but not desperately hungry.

"I don't know what t'morrow's gonna bring fer us, but I ken tell what ya wanna do righ' now," he said, a teasing smile on his face as he slipped his hands between her thighs and into her panties and - _oh_ \- she moaned and instinctively bucked her hips into his touch, making him chuckle as he kissed her cheek, whispered in her ear. "Ya wanna make it wi' me _real_ bad."

"Jerk," she said, laughing and fake pushing him away before grabbing the collar of his t-shirt and pulling him down into a kiss again. This led into more kisses and caresses and the removal of clothing items. When the blue t-shirt cleared his head and was tossed to the floor, she made a pleased noise, like when she discovered a new culinary delight and took that first heavenly bite. She'd enjoyed the site of his naked body the previous night, enjoyed the feel of it even more. But she'd also been tentative to let it show, to let her lust drive her, nervous about the mental state of her friend as they explored what could very well be a horrible trigger for rape flashbacks. But they'd gotten through it, more than that, he'd given her the best orgasm of her life. The fact that she hadn't climaxed when he came inside of her hadn't mattered at all. On the few occasions it had happened to her before, she'd been disappointed. But not with Chris. It had been so wonderful having him inside of her, reveling in his pleasure with the afterglow of her own ecstasy still lingering.

He seemed so happy and carefree this time, that she allowed herself to touch him in whichever manner felt right, without second-guessing her instinct, running her hands over his bare chest, toying with the sprinkle of brown hair on his white skin, the pink nipples that hardened and puckered when she tugged at them making him groan, before she traced the light trail of hair down his flat stomach into the waistband of his boxers, delved deeper, brushed her fingers over the warm flesh inside, felt it twitch in response, and then wrapped her fingers about him in a more forceful caress, softly stroking his hardening length, laughing with delight as he collapsed partially on top of her, groaning her name.

"Ya got the mos' bewitchin' fingers, Merri Brody," he said into her neck before nipping at her with his teeth. He didn't stop her fingers, however, but let her stroke him a few more times before he pushed himself up off from her. But before he could do it himself, she tugged his boxers off his hips and they pooled at his knees revealing him in all of his naked - _and engorged_ \- glory.

He was a beautiful man. Merri admittedly was a little biased. She was a connoisseur of men, she studied them, how they moved, how they talked, how they interacted with the world around them, how they were built. And Chris LaSalle was nicely built. Not body-builder Adonis, but lean and firm and _yum_. She pounced on him, making him laugh as her body impacted his, her naked breasts (when had he houdini-ed off the t-shirt she'd worn to bed?) flattening against the muscle of his chest, her nipples as hard as his that poked into her much softer chest. But more impressive and startling was the hard, warm, smooth flesh that poked her in the belly. Fuck, how she wanted it _in_ her belly.

"How you want to do this?" she asked, feeling a little giddy with the spike in anticipatory hormones. He raised his eyebrows at her, thrust his hips gently against hers, as if saying 'the usual way... I put my cock inside of you.' She laughed again. Okay, sometimes the man was every bit as simple as he appeared. "I mean missionary, doggy style..."

His pretty blue eyes widened, his pupils dilating further as he considered her suggestions. He wet his lips again.

"Wanna be on top?" he asked. He seemed pretty excited by the idea, and it was difficult to believe that the same arrangement had somewhat freaked him out last time.

"Are you sure?" she asked, even though he was eagerly kicking his boxers off the rest of the way and moving to sit half-reclining against the headboard.

"Hell yeah," he said, patting his naked thighs in invitation. Well then...

Merri shimmied out of her own underwear tossing them aside before she crawled over to him, kissing him. Things started getting very heated very quickly until he grabbed her shoulders and gently pushed her away, reminding her that he was a man suffering from a sort of PTSD, and that he'd had a problem with this just a matter of hours ago. So she froze.

"You want me to stop?" she asked, breathless and admittedly a little disappointed.

"God, no," he said, equally breathless. "Jus'... Condom. Bedside table."

"Right." _Duh, Merri._ Fuck, she would've taken him completely au natural. More than a small part of her wanted to do precisely that, to feel the smooth tight skin of his engorged cock sliding against her own slick flesh. And she was on the birth control after all. But her beloved friend had been raped. And if he said they needed a condom, they needed one.

"Some lube's in there, too," he added, which made her laugh, which in turn made him give her a confused look until she took his hand and guided it between her thighs. His mouth twitched, and his fingers stroked her gently, one curling up to push inside of her with an audible wet sound.

"I may be a little bit older than you," she said, her tone warning him against making any comment about her age. "But everything is still working fine."

"Better than fine, I'd say," he said, pulling his finger out of her and sticking it in his mouth, his lips closing around his knuckle before he hummed appreciatively, sliding the digit back out, sucking it clean of her body's residue. Damn. That was more erotic than it had any right to be. "Ya sure taste good, Mere."

She shook off the disruptive new knowledge she had acquired over the past twelve hours, that Chris LaSalle was unbelievably good at oral sex, and that he seemed to enjoy eating a woman out as much as sticking his cock in her. She wondered about when he might next use that talented mouth of his on her. But his generosity on that front only made her more eager to get him inside of her, to have a little fun that resulted in them both achieving completion.

She retrieved a condom, checking that the wrapper was in tact and that it hadn't expired before she climbed back into her friend's lap, kissing him in playful, teasing little pecks on his lips as she stroked him a bit more, memorizing the feel of his naked, satin smooth flesh before she sheathed it. And then she rose up, lining her hips up, taking him in hand to guide him into her, pausing briefly to look down into his eyes gone so dark a blue the irises nearly blended into his dilated black pupils.

"Please." It was almost a whimper, his expression one of earnest desire. The facetious foreplay they'd had going fell to the wayside as they stared into one another, and she remembered the dreadful nightmare, and the reason she wanted to have him buried deep inside of her again, to feel his warm, living flesh, his beating heart, his expressive, affectionate eyes boring into her soul.

She moaned appreciatively as she took him completely inside of her. God, he felt so fucking good. Undeniably the closest-to-perfection fit she'd ever experienced. Okay, the absolute most _perfect_ fit. Yes, sexual organs tended to be somewhat variable, and not just person by person. She cold be looser, wetter, more elastic one time than another. He could be stiffer sooner, longer or thicker, more engorged. But despite this being only the second time she'd had him buried to the hilt inside of her, Merri had to admit that he was the _perfect_ fit. Not too big. Not too small. Just right. The same as the night before, filling her to the degree that it was a constant, gentle pressure, the head of his cock pushing against her inner wall with just a hint of discomfort. It was the perfect recipe for an unbearably sensual friction as she raised her hips and then plunged them down, beginning to move, to ride him.

Like the night before, he stared into her with his deep blue eyes. His hands went to her hips, not urging her or attempting to guide the movement of her body, but rather his strong, blunt fingers seemed to dig into her flesh a little as if trying to find purchase, to anchor himself. His pretty lips parted, releasing the moan that had been previously restrained to rumbling in his chest and throat. Along with the naked, vulnerable, needy look in his eyes, she took this as a good sign, that it wasn't going to give him a horrible flashback. Her own body was already growing quite aroused, heat blossoming from her groin through her belly and all the way up her chest and neck. She was likely pink with the sexual flush, her face doubtless blushing like a timid young woman's. But she didn't care.

He felt good. He felt so damned good. Inside of her, sliding against her sensitive flesh, the firm skin of his chest and shoulders beneath her palms as she caressed him, exploring with her fingertips, but not trailing with her lips, because he was staring into her in that intense way of his, and she didn't dare break the contact.

"Kiss me," he said, his hands moving to her face and neck, pulling her in close. She more than willingly leaned in to meet his lips with hers, his tongue teasing, probing, seeking until she opened to him and then he was thrusting his tongue into her mouth, stroking her in rhythm to the movement of her hips and she felt drunk, better than drunk because it was a heady rush, but she was feeling every single bit of it.

The heat of his palms exploring her body, kneading her flesh, the pounding of his heart as she leaned in, pressing her breasts against him, the taste of his mouth and the vitality in his lips and tongue as he kissed her, making pleased sounds. And the beautiful, sinful friction that pushed her beyond her capacity for sensation, causing her to pull away from him as her body tensed and her back arched and the world became nothing but ecstasy.

When the dizzying high subsided somewhat, she realized she was collapsed against her lover, her face buried in his neck as he kissed her shoulder, his hand trailing up and down her spine, sending little waves of pleasure across her naked, sweat-coated skin.

And he was still inside of her, still hard, filling her to an almost uncomfortable degree as her body contracted around him.

She made a pathetic whimpering noise when she shifted a little, hyper-sensitized nerves flaring. It was strange to feel the afterglow placidity warring with a burgeoning wave of arousal inside of her.

"Ya still wi' me?" he asked, laughter in his breathless voice.

"More or less," she replied before tonguing his neck, tasting the salt on his skin. He grabbed her hips, bucking his own and thrusting up into her a little, obviously trying to prompt her to resume riding him, but she felt heavy and dull in that clumsy post-orgasm way, even as the friction sent another little thrill of sensation up through the core of her. "I think it's your turn to drive."

He cupped her face, grinning at her. "Ya really got yerself off good there, didn' ya?"

"With some help," she said, illustrating her point by clenching her inner muscles around his thick length still sheathed fully inside of her. He groaned, kissed her with his tongue as he wrapped his arms firmly about her and then lifted her, depositing her onto her back so that- _Whoa!_ , her neck wasn't quite on the edge of the mattress and her head lolled back unsupported so that she was looking at his bedroom upside down. She hastily grabbed handfuls of the sheet to counteract the sensation that she was going to fall off the bed. But she felt his strong hands grasp her thighs and lift her ass off the mattress as he slid into her once more.

Holy shit! This was insane. Her heart was beating a mile a minute and her shoulders felt like they were slipping off the edge of the bed, and all of the blood was rushing to her head. Well, also to her- Oh, fuck! Fuck!

She was going to black out. _Oh, god._ Only, only she could feel everything. He was barely touching her, just his hands gripping her thighs with bruising force, his flesh pumping into her. Yet sensation was coursing through every single nerve ending in her body, pulsing, thrumming, sweeping her away in a tide of bliss.

A succession of wet, hot touches to her stomach ground her as her orgasm seemed to slowly recede with little jolts of sensation as it waned. The kisses continued to form a sort of circle around her navel, interspersed with chuckles that drew silly giggles bubbling out of her own mouth.

She was dizzy and giddy. It was like being drunk, only without the haziness. Okay, strike that. Strong arms slipped under her back and then suddenly pulled her upright, giving her the most intense head rush she'd ever experienced before she was suddenly stopped by a solid wall of flesh and then Chris dragged her down so that they were lying (with both of them fully on the bed this time) in a tangled heap of naked, sweat-coated, sated bodies.

Chris was still breathing heavily, and she felt his nose rooting about in her hair, his breath hot on her scalp, making her giggle some more as she closed her eyes against the continual spinning of the world. Would it ever stop? Had the man completely thrown it off its axis? Would she ever walk straight again?

"Hope ya ain't laughin' at my technique," he said after about a minute.

"I think I'm laughing _because_ of your technique, Chris?" she said. "I think my equilibrium might be permanently thrown off."

He laughed, disentangled himself from her, laying her legs out straight and setting her hands on her stomach, but she wriggled about like a small child being told to sit still, because the world was still spinning and she couldn't quite get it to stand still.

"'Scuse me a minute, darlin'," he said taking her face in both hands to still her and placing a kiss on the tip of her nose before he went to clean himself up.

The cracks and stains in the old plaster ceiling of Chris' bedroom formed interesting patterns, especially when they spun around like a Spirograph. She closed her eyes, giggling again before she concentrated on moving air in and out of her lungs, forcing herself to remain still until her equilibrium returned.

Unfortunately -or fortunately, depending on how you looked at things- Chris returned first, jumping on the bed, making it bounce as he cuddled up to her. She dared to crack an eye open, found his blue eyes shining merrily at her, and couldn't resist. She smiled back at his full-blown grin.

"That was fun," he said, his hand finding her side and beginning to stroke her as he threw a leg over hers and pressed himself against her side. Chris LaSalle was a post-coital cuddler. Not surprising.

"That was _interesting_ ," she said. His eyebrows rose in silent question, but his grin didn't fade.

"My head's still spinning." For some reason she hadn't really wanted to stroke his ego by sharing the specific, intense after-effects of sex with him, but given the state he'd been in even just yesterday, why not focus on pleasant, life-affirming things? "Where'd you learn to do that to a woman?"

He winked. "Right now, wit' ya."

"Liar." He chuckled, all too pleased with himself. She loved seeing him so light-hearted, reveled in the knowledge that his spirit could never be truly extinguished.

"God honest truth, Mere," he said. "Yer dang inspirin'."

She slapped his bare chest as he began to tickle-kiss her neck and breasts. They ended up wrestling about for a few minutes until she had him laughing uncontrollably and begging for mercy as she tickled his sides. The sheets had twisted about them both to the point where it took some additional struggling to separate their overheated bodies and finally lie side-by-side.

It was a happy silence filled only with the sound of their normalizing breathing and the occasional giddy giggle that descended between them. It was strange to think of the dark place she'd found her friend in the previous day, or the one which she'd woken in the depths of herself.

She felt his fingers tickle her palm as he slipped his hand into hers, and she willingly interlaced her fingers with his.

"Merri?" His voice was quiet, more sober than his extremely light and flirtatious lover's manner. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, catching him chewing his lip.

"Yeah?"

"Will ya… um..." He seemed to lose his nerve. Which was odd, given how exposed and vulnerable he'd rendered himself to 'make love' with her.

"What is it? You can ask me anything, Chris," She said, giving his hand a squeeze. "You know that, right?"

He squeezed her hand back, turned onto his side to look at her with his blue eyes. "Yeah... I... Will ya, for lack of an better word, be my 'rebound girlfriend'?"

He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, wincing a little in anticipation of her response, which granted was initially one of shock, until she figured out what exactly he was asking.

"You want to keep sleeping together? Until your nightmares settle down more?"

"I'd really appreciate that..." He fidgeted a little, and she fought the smile twitching the corner of her mouth. The man was sometimes downright adorable. "But I was hopin' mebbe ya might do the whole thing wi' me. Ya know, dinner dates 'n' cuddlin' on the couch wi' a movie. An'..."

"Elbowing you in the middle of the night when you start snoring..." This earned her a laugh and she could see the tension ebb from his body. He'd been nervous about asking her for what he needed. And she didn't want him to be shy with her. He needed someone he could turn to with anything. Even if they didn't always get along, which they wouldn't if they did what he was proposing. "Fighting over whose turn it is to drive..."

"We already do that," he said, shifting closer to her again, his apprehension fleeing with her warm teasing.

"Are you sure that's what you want, Chris?" she asked. She could understand. The universe had sort of beaten it into him over the past six months that he wasn't meant to live a full life, to be happy. Which was entirely untrue. And she would do whatever it took to make sure he knew that. Even if it meant she might get in too deep, might break her own heart in restoring his.

"Ya've already convinced me I ken still make love ta a woman." His hand caressed her inner thigh, making heat blossom in her belly yet again. And she silently scolded her body, a little bit impressed as well as incredulous that it was interested in being aroused so soon after being sated. She'd been called insatiable before, but this was ridiculous. She was trying to have a serious moment with her troubled (but hopefully healing) friend.

"So you need me to help you practice the full intimacy experience?" She supposed he was right to want to try being 'normal' with her. Not that she thought him particularly 'normal' or that 'normal' was a good thing. Because he wasn't an average guy. He was so much better, kinder, more loyal, understanding, affectionate and protective. But he was nervous about exposing someone new to any night terrors or mood swings he might suffer. That they wouldn't understand when he was withdrawn or morose.

"I guess 'Rebound Girlfriend' is the appropriate term," she said. Wasn't that what happened, when someone's heart was broken and they doubted their ability to ever be with another person, to love or be loved again? They sought someone to help them realize they weren't as broken as they thought?

"Would ya prefer Relationship Coach?" he asked, returning to his full ebullience as he shifted further to hover over her and stare down directly into her face.

"Ooh, I like that." She wasn't sure why, but she pinched his naked buttock. "I can just watch and shout out advice from the sidelines."

"Hey!" He swatted at her hand, but she pulled it hastily away, causing him to smack himself in the ass and curse. Merri giggled, but promptly closed her mouth when he glared at her.

"Okay, how 'bout 'Transitional Girlfriend'?"

"That makes it sound like I'm in the middle of getting a sex change."

This time he pinched her, groping the sensitive flesh between her thighs and making her gasp.

"Please keep it." He shifted, leaned down and tongued her nipple. "An' these."

She mock rolled her eyes. "Well, if you insist. I'll wait until after I'm done being your 'Rebound Girlfriend'."

"Really?"

"Really," she said, hoping it was more for altruistic than selfish reasons that she was agreeing to the arrangement. "I'd like to do it."

"Thanks, Mere."

And then he was kissing her, all warmth and life and joy. How could she have said 'no'? Why would she have wanted to?

* * *

 **A/N: Will the two damaged agents be able to find healing in one another? Or are they making a terrible mistake playing at being lovers?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: There is actually more plot to this story than the angst and smut, believe it or not ;-) This bit is from the villain's perspective, and might be a little uncomfortable to read. I debated not posting this (or censoring it more heavily), but it does propel the plot forward (and I do like to play with character psychologies). That being said you can probably figure out what's happening in future chapters without reading this one.**

 **WARNING: CONTAINS MATURE SUBJECT MATTER AND COARSE LANGUAGE. NOT RECOMMENDED FOR YOUNGER OR SENSITIVE AUDIENCES. (References to non-consensual sexual encounters and violence.)**

* * *

Pitiful. It had only taken three days for the Little Rabbit to break.

Gabriel had names for them all, besides the ones they used while they were whole 'people'. They were all just facsimiles. He showed them how fake they were. How unreal the selves they showed to the world really were. That was his gift to them. If he got some joy out of the process, well, what the hell. He deserved it. It was difficult work, tearing down those lies, those stupid socially-induced psychological constructions.

Fucking was real. Was the only real thing in life. Just two bodies. No lies. The foreplay could be lies, nothing but lies. But when flesh melded together, the lies could no longer be maintained. He could see straight into their souls through their eyes. Whether they were stubborn, loyal, cowards, depraved, innocent, naive, foolishly hopeful, despairing. Whether they'd abandoned the lies that they thought were their true life and their true self.

The Little Rabbit had been the worst kind of fake, a rat in a maze, working in an office, commuting half an hour to and from, going out to happy hour twice a week, dating online. It had taken no time for her to come undone, unraveling to reveal the lonely, lonely soul. It hadn't been very well hidden at any rate.

On the plus side, she'd been easy on the eyes. A little on the plump and curvy side. But that's honestly how he liked the women for his own pleasure. Not fat by any means. Just not rail skinny. Definitely a woman. He only did adults. Not only was he not a pervert, but children were only just learning their lies. They still had time to throw their masks away. They didn't need his help cracking them, smashing them to pieces. They didn't lie like fully grown people did.

She'd been tight, too, so tight she screamed with every thrust of his hips. He'd given her the full number, throat, cunt and ass. It had only taken the rape to undo her. Some people took some slapping around. Some took cutting or burning or electrocuting.

Pretty Boy with the Blue Eyes, he'd required some solitary. That had been an interesting one, for certain. He'd been a complex assembly. Not just wearing a mask. It had been an amalgamation of lies he knew were lies, lies he told himself, lies he told others, and truths in varying degrees. He had his true self wrapped up tight, because it also wove in and out of the rest of the layers like tendrils, binding him together, holding the whole mess together so tightly... it had taken a lot of work to undo him, to smash the whole thing to pieces. And fuck, had it been a pleasure, an ecstasy to do it, to do _him_.

Honestly, Gabriel mostly favored women. But why should he let his body's preferred sexual orientation deny those who needed his help? There were so many. Too many. But he did what he could. Not because he was nobly providing a service. But because he fucking enjoyed it. Enjoyed breaking them. His wife was a lithe, exuberant and very honest lover, but bed-play with her was nothing compared to the orgasm he got by destroying a person's mask. Something she'd never know.

Unfortunately, Little Rabbit hadn't been nearly as satisfying as he'd hoped. She was everything he liked for a project, female, nice, soft, curvy body, dull, fake life, cookie-cutter personality that begged to be broken. But he realized now, nothing would ever compare to Pretty Boy. He was a tough act to follow with all that baggage and that complex psyche like a Gordian Knot, and those captivating deep blue eyes, and that responsive body -even when he was still resisting, it tensed and shuddered, shivered and quivered beneath Gabriel's touch. Those pink nipples of his so easily turning to hard buds beneath the bite of his liberator's teeth, his cock stiffening despite its owner's mental desires, so hard yet soft-skinned, his balls growing heavy in the palm of Gabriel's large hand. The whimpers and moans and groans, of mixed pain and pleasure, the sounds that inevitably emerged from that pretty-perfect mouth of his (not too plump, not to thin, with a well-defined cupid's bow that women doubtless envied). The way those lips parted around Gabriel's cock when the man had finally truly submitted. The way his ass swallowed it whole, even the first time when he'd fought desperately against the stiff length thrusting deep into his rectum.

Fuck, Gabriel was getting hard even thinking about it.

But Pretty Blue-Eyes had shattered, had submitted. And yeah, Gabriel had been a little upset when he had. He'd been liking the battle of wills a little too much, had lost sight of the ultimate goal. He'd fucked Pretty Boy's brains out in a blind rage-filled lust, hitting him and choking him as he'd penetrated him so forcefully without preparing him first he'd made him bleed, pounded his ass so hard he'd bruised him inside and out.

Gabriel had felt marginally guilty about it. After all, what was the point in hurting him anymore? He supposed grinding the shattered pieces into dust ensured that the Blue-Eyed Boy wouldn't be able to put them back together again.

But that fucker was resilient. Even when he'd begun to offer his body up to his liberator, he'd held back his mind and emotional self. In fact, Gabriel ultimately had only been going through the motions, fucking the attractive man simply because he was so good a fuck, as he tried to figure out another way to get at him. And then one day, he'd just finally shattered, as if all the pieces of himself had been merely sitting in place, only requiring a nudge to fall completely to shards. And it was then Gabriel realized it was the tenderness that had done it. He'd been getting quite affectionate with Pretty Boy. Instinctively, he must have sensed it would be the man's undoing, that it was making him doubt himself, making him think he wanted what was being done to him that broke the little self-confidence and self-righteousness that had the younger man still clinging to the falsehood of his self-identity. Gabriel hadn't just been fucking him in the end. He'd been making love to him. And it finished the man off.

But again, Chris LaSalle had been resilient, seemingly crushed, he'd always bounced back before his liberator could be certain the job had been done and dispose of him.

Sometimes Gabriel checked up on his pets, the wild creatures he'd freed from their bonds of tameness. Some weren't survivors, couldn't adapt to being their true selves and committed suicide. Some never tried to reclaim their masks, became beasts, predators themselves. And some managed to revert. Never fully, he was satisfied to learn, most all enrolled in permanent intensive psychological treatment, trying to reacquire the deceitful masks they would never again don so flawlessly.

Some internet searching, a little hacking, and Gabriel found himself pulled further and further in, reading emails, case files, psychological reports with ever increasing shock. And a little anger.

Pretty Boy had seemingly put that complicated, messy psyche back together.

Gabriel hadn't broken him at all. Not permanently, anyway.

The job wasn't done.

He smiled to himself as he began to make plans. This was better than going out and finding another one like Little Rabbit. Or seeing what the traffickers had to offer. This required something new. It was going to be a challenge retrieving the one that got away and crushing him. And it would be so satisfying that it might just have to be his last. He wet his lips as he researched how to remotely hack smart phones. In just a little while he'd have that most delectable piece of ass back in his hands, or quivering beneath his cock, as it were.

* * *

 **A/N: I know it's a little gruesome… But really, a serial abductor/rapist's head is not going to be a pleasant place.**

 **A/N2: How much more is LaSalle going to have to suffer? Or will the twisted bastard even be able to get close to his target again, with Meredith Brody around? Will this unexpected obsession be the rapist's downfall?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Again, I delayed in posting this update because of what may be 'controversial or offensive or pushing the boundaries of good taste' but to hell with it. I've taken a policy of letting this story be what it wants to be with little to no censorship. And now that I've scared the majority of you off yet again with my overdramatic warnings…**

 **WARNING: REFERENCES TO MATURE SUBJECT MATTER (and frank discussions of biology)**

 ***EDITED TO INCLUDE GABRIEL POV SCENE (So all those warnings, too)***

* * *

Merri was loathe to put an end to it, but she really had to before things got out of hand. She thought making out a little would be quite nice, a balm to a hard fricken day. And Chris LaSalle was so very good at kissing. And caressing. And rubbing himself against her in a way that drove her straight out of her mind, even as his tongue did that thing to her mouth that she couldn't ever quite figure out the mechanics of it but _damn_. She moaned, equal parts pure pleasure, intense desire and lamentable loss. Because she also pushed him away, causing him to sit up once more, instead of that sexy-as-hell leaning so far over her that he was practically lying on top of her and only partially keeping his weight off of her by gripping the sofa arm behind her head, his bicep bulging deliciously in her visual periphery.

His alluring, pretty lips were wet and had acquired a light pinkish hue from their heavy petting session. His eyes had gone all dark and intense, but also a little confused over the cessation of activities.

It had been selfish of her to let things go so far. It was just- it'd been a long day. And they hadn't seen each other the previous day, either. And she was feeling a little lusty and sexually frustrated by the extremely short dry spell. Three whole days without even touching or kissing him. They had never gone that long without at least making out. The first time they'd had sex sort of just became the beginning of their uninterrupted intimate activity. And 'sleeping together' in the literal sense. At her place or his, depending on the day and their moods. Neither of them seemed to really care as long as they were together. She had a feeling they both feared that it was simply an addiction, so they'd agreed to take at least one day a week off from each other. Just to make sure they weren't burying their problems with this strange friends-with-benefits (more like friends-with-incredible-sexual-chemistry-and-a-little-something-more-that-she-just-couldn't-face-yet) relationship.

"Sorry," she said, pushing herself back up into a sitting position as well. "Just... I started my period yesterday."

"I know," he said, still looking a little confused that she'd put an end to their making-out-bordering-on-serious-foreplay.

"What? It's only been a couple months since we started sleeping together," she said, more than a little shocked he was behaving so matter-of-fact about the information that usually made guys squeamish.

"Mere, our job is a li'l more along the lines of 24/7 than 9-ta-5," he said. "We been workin' together for nearly two years now. An' we been good friends for 'most as long. I've known what time of the month ya get yer menzies fer well over a year."

She scoffed, her mouth slightly ajar. It was partly the news that he'd figured out probably a few months after first meeting her what her menstrual cycle was. But it was also the fact that Chris LaSalle had just used the word 'menzies', and without an iota of embarrassment over it. He was such a guy's guy that it was shocking that he was completely willing to talk about her 'female problems' like they were discussing the procedure for processing an arrest.

Then again, his openness and easiness about it sort of made sense. He was basically raised by a single woman, whom she thought was pretty staunch in her Christianity, but she'd been the one who had to teach her boys how to respect and behave towards women, since they'd had no real male role model to follow. But even more significantly, Chris had an older sister. She supposed that meant the sexes were evenly matched in his childhood household. But his mother was the authority figure, presumably followed by Cade, but given the development and maturity of kids, the sister, Jenny, was likely truly the second in command. And if the mother-daughter unit were open with each other, they were inadvertently open with the boys, too. In the single-parent home, he'd probably even had to buy feminine products for his mother and sister when sent out on errands.

So if he was well-aware of the current state of her reproductive organs, and was comfortable enough to tell her so, then why the hell had he been basically dry-humping her on the couch, his hand wandering southward as if he were about to slip it beneath the waistband of her pants and into her panties?

"I don't get it," she said.

"It ain't that difficult." He began to list all of the signs that indicated she was menstruating, finally adding, "An' last month, don't think I didn't notice how horny ya got."

"Excuse me?" She really had no right to be incensed. It was true. She got damned lusty in the middle of her period. It was ridiculous. Mostly because what the hell could she do about it? Okay, so she had done a little something about it...

"Ya jumped me before I even got fully inside a' the door, Mere." Well, he'd been assigned their trainee that day and she hadn't seen him at all, had been unable to sate her lusty inclinations by studying the way his jeans fit his ass and fantasizing about what she'd do to it, to him. Or breathe in the scent of him that always comforted her. Or aroused her, depending on the situation.

"Don't get me wrong, that was _the_ greatest blow job I ever received in my life," he said, the stupid-happy grin lighting his face as he remembered the event which gave her both pride and a little shame she'd been so uninhibitedly voracious in stripping him naked, tonguing every _single_ inch of his body and then devouring his cock. "But despite what ya may think, I didn' pass out after. I heard what ya did in the shower."

Merri felt her cheeks burning.

"Ya come damn hard, darlin'," he said, delighted grin now downright Cheshire in nature. "An' make the racket ta match."

"Okay," she said, deciding to take the high road. "So, yes, I get 'horny' when I'm having my period. You would, too, if your sexual organs were all swollen and highly sensitive. That is, when they aren't feeling like they're trying to tear themselves straight out of your body."

He grimaced in sympathy, so she forgave him for pointing out the fact that while her body was giving up on making babies, she really wanted to perform the act of making babies.

"What are you going to do about it, Chris?"

She didn't mean for it to sound like a challenge. Or an invitation. But he apparently took it as both, pouncing on her in a flash, kissing her in that way that made her dizzy-drunk, coaxing her back down onto the sofa beneath him.

"Don't tease me," she said, locking eyes with him when he finally surfaced for air. "You really want to have sex with me right now?"

"As much as ever, darlin'. An' ya know how much I like ta make love ta ya."

"You can probably just rub me off," she said.

He frowned. "Not gonna work fer me."

"You know I'll take care of you, too." When had she ever left him hanging?!

"I don't doubt that ya would, Mere." He was smiling at her again, his blue eyes possessing that mischievous, teasing glint she knew all too well, and admittedly adored. "But I wanna stick it in ya, feel ya come around me, wanna come inside ya."

She squeezed her thighs together, feeling an unsettling gushing sensation as her vagina twitched with her increased arousal, loosening her flow.

"I'm bleeding," she said, trying to wrap her mind around the idea that this man, her friend, her lover, didn't seem bothered by the lingering cultural taboo against fucking a menstruating woman. "It'll be messy."

"Sex is messy," he said, his eyes holding hers, remaining engaged in their serious conversation. But his free hand, not supporting his weight, roamed over body, stroking her neck and throat, gently groping her tender breasts, caressing her stomach and sides and hip... Rubbing low on her belly, massaging the aching uterus buried within. Fuck. He always made her feel so good. Always. Even that first night when he'd climaxed and she hadn't. He'd seemed determined that it never happen again. She had at least one orgasm every time they had sex. Well, there'd been twice without, when she'd only performed oral sex on him and had to insist he needn't reciprocate right then, or at all. She wasn't keeping score. And she was pretty certain he wasn't either. Because just like she felt about pleasuring him, he seemed to enjoy getting her off as much as getting off himself. Which was why she was concerned that he was only doing this because she hadn't been discreet and he well knew how sexually needy and frustrated she got during her time of the month.

"An' we might as well get used ta it, 'cause it's gonna be a lot messier when we ain't gotta use a condom no more."

It was probably silly, but they were both looking forward to that, despite the fact that they hadn't discussed where this whole thing was headed, or that it would even last those four more months before the final test that would officially clear him of possible HIV infection. And it wasn't something being anticipated just because it meant he hadn't been infected with a horrible disease. He was optimistic about it, about how positive the doctors were, that it seemed a foregone conclusion that it would be okay, that he would be okay. And Merri herself refused to think otherwise. So rather, when they talked about that last negative test, they were fantasizing about doing it au natural, removing the last barrier between their bodies. How she craved that, and she wasn't sure why.

But for now, the sex was fantastic, anyway. And it was a bit easier to clean up she supposed, than it would be if he pumped his entire release into her body, or in the case of non-penetrative sex, onto her or himself or the sheets or into her mouth.

"I want ya, Merri," he said, staring down into her, in that soul-searing way he usual only used on her mid-coitus, when they were entangled in one another's flesh. "I am always wantin' ya. I love yer body. An' twelve times a year it bleeds. So what? It's natural. An' if ya wan' me, whether yer bleedin' or not, I'm more than willin'."

She felt more wetness spill into the panty-liner she'd clenched her thighs around. Sophisticated persons wouldn't call Chris LaSalle an eloquent man, but damn, he had a way of talking to her that made his words as arousing as his touch.

Oh, to hell with it.

"Bed me, Chris LaSalle."

* * *

He liked the sex. That was a given. Not just because he was a guy, though. And not just because she had the most gorgeous, firm yet soft, curvy, full-breasted, round-bottomed, responsive, _perfect_ body. It was the emotional intimacy that accompanied the sex. Merri Brody was completely open and unreserved when she was making love. Chris wasn't sure if she was that way with every man she'd bedded, and he supposed the thought that anyone else could've been so close to her heart and soul sort of made him jealous.

But if he wanted to follow that line of reasoning, how jealous could he be when he was the one who was holding her in his arms at night? Got to kiss her, touch her, caress her naked body, be held by her, touched by her, kissed by her. She was his. At least for the moment. He didn't know where it was going between them. He knew that she thought perhaps, like he sometimes feared, that it might be unhealthy, the mutual obsession and addiction they'd almost instantly developed for one another. Did it bespeak an unwise codependency? He'd been so lost before she'd reached out to him, so unsure of himself, of who he was, what feelings were truly his, what were the remnants of those forced upon him by an evil monster.

She'd put him together again. When he was with her, he saw himself as reflected in her eyes. He wanted to be the man she saw him as. More than that, he knew he was that man. Maybe not quite as good as she thought he was, but in the eyes of a friend, wasn't that always the case? She thought him loyal, which he was, but maybe not so completely noble and unwavering in his loyalty. She thought him kind and gentle, but he knew it was only to those he viewed as deserving compassion. She thought him respectful, but manners sometimes only disguised distaste and dislike.

But to her, with her, he was all those things. And he liked being all those things again. Like he had been before...

He tried to look at other women. Because that was the plan. That she was just serving as interim, as a rebound to make him feel whole again so that he could carry on with his life. So he did try to look at other women. Try to imagine what it would be like to go on a date with them, to use his rusty charm on them, flirt, make 'em smile an' laugh. To bed them. Settle down with them. But god, no matter how pretty they were, how lively and alluring, how hard he tried to fantasize about getting them to spread their legs for him... He always wound up thinking about Merri. How much he enjoyed making her smile and laugh. How much he enjoyed plunging into that sweet spot between her accommodating thighs, kissing her, making her whimper and moan and scream, dig her fingernails into his skin, kiss his neck and mouth with primal need. It never got old. And not only because the woman was adventurous and willing to try anything he could think up, ask her to do. It just... He'd never tire of making love to her, being intimate with her.

He pulled her sleeping form closer, took her slender hand and placed it on his chest, over his heart, in the way he knew she liked. Merri still had nightmares once in awhile. So did he. But all the comfort she generally needed was to feel his heart beating by placing a hand or her cheek against his chest. Sometimes, when she was really freaked out, he'd quickly maneuver her body, pull her beneath him. A stash of condoms sat on top of his nightstand, easily on hand for the amount of sex they had. He'd be inside of her, on top of her, smothering her with his presence before she even fully became aware and sighed in relief, wrapping her arms tightly about him and taking the entire weight of him onto her, so that she could feel his heart beating against her chest, her own answering in its separate tattoo. Then they'd slowly move together, matching the rhythm of their hearts, sometimes not reaching a gentle climax until over an hour had passed.

It was utterly bizarre, he supposed.

But felt extremely right. As did making love to her that night, despite her women's blood coating the condom, her thighs and his balls, soaking into their pubic hair and the towels he'd laid out beneath her on the bed. She'd offered to wash for him first, citing the strong odor of her sex, but he'd said why bother when they'd have to shower afterward. She'd looked incredulous, so he had to explain how he didn't find the potent musk of her offensive, that it was like her natural scent only amplified and with a metallic tinge, and that the fact that she smelled so strongly of her pussy got him painfully hard. She'd blushed a little at that, turning even more pink and flush with arousal when he began to kiss her and touch her again, stripped her naked, teased her sensitive lady parts a little before he slid into her, eliciting the most delightful shuddering moan of ecstasy from her lips.

It had been messy.

But pleasuring Merri was definitely worth it. Not to mention his own physical enjoyment of the romp. And then afterward they'd showered together, washing each other, an always welcome sensuous game. He got her to come again under the hot torrent of the water that washed the pinkish-orange tinted soap suds down the drain. He loved it when she said his name in that certain way. It wasn't a loud cry (although she did that, too). Rather, it was a breathy whisper, pure untempered need. Somewhat a paradox since she uttered it at the moment of completion. Yet not at all, because he knew it wasn't lust, it wasn't voicing a need for release, but a need for him. It was the single most completely unguarded moment in which Merri Brody existed. She shared herself with him in varying degrees, always mindful of his emotions, more-so than her own. But in that moment, right as he drove her to climax, it was solely her most primal emotion, unregulated. And she whispered his name like she were begging him to stay with her forever.

God help him, he sort of wanted that, too. And not just because she'd made life bearable again. More than bearable, pleasant, happy even. He knew she feared that she wasn't doing right by him, that she was only helping him to avoid his darker thoughts and fears. But that wasn't true. She was there for him. She loved him even when it was messy, too. And that's why he never wanted to let her go.

He'd never trusted someone so implicitly before. Never shared every dark corner of himself, every flaw. And she'd never rejected him once for it. Rather, she accepted his issues, and tried to find ways to help him deal with the ones that hurt him. It had been Merri who'd convinced him to join the support group for survivors of violent crimes, knowing how he just wasn't comfortable talking to the psychologist he still had to check in with. And it had also been her who'd held him while he sobbed into her shoulder after barely keeping it together through a case where a navy lieutenant's auburn-haired wife had surprised a home-invader and was shot dead in their living room. Both she and Pride had tried to offer him multiple outs for the couple of days it took to investigate the open-and-shut case, but he'd refused. It was something he had felt compelled to do. He couldn't just abandon Justice whenever it got rough. Merri had seemed to understand. And comforted him when he broke down.

No. He was still a mess. Nightmares. And the tendency to be seized by random bouts of depression, sometimes followed by irrational mood swings. She weathered them all.

He didn't deserve her.

When he leaned over to press his lips to her temple, she opened her big, brown eyes and he fell in love.

Okay, so he was already more than a little there. A lot there. It was just... He'd had doubts about his feelings. So many. So often.

Except for with her. Everything seemed so simple and certain when gazing into her pretty doe-eyes. All of the troubles in the world didn't seem to matter. All of the expectations and pressures placed on him. But never any from her. She accepted him as he was.

"Thank you, Mere," he whispered, cupping her face and stroking her soft, pale cheek with his thumb. He could feel tears welling up, because god, he didn't deserve her. He didn't.

"Come here," she said softly, her voice the sweetest sound in the universe as she pulled him against her, allowing him to bury his face in her neck and breathe in the equally sweet scent of her skin as she wrapped her arms around him and held him close.

Did she know how much she meant to him? Did she know how much he loved her

* * *

Meredith Brody.

She was the glue that was binding the broken pieces of Gabriel's Blue-Eyed Pretty Boy together. And as far as glues went, he couldn't blame the man. The bugs he'd placed about Pretty Boy's apartment gave him all the information he needed about how specifically she'd put his former self together again. Instead of tendrils of the man's true self winding throughout all the layers of masks and lies, binding it together, it was her. It was obviously her.

Some would say sex didn't solve any psychological or emotional problems.

But Gabriel knew better than that. He could use it to destroy.

Meredith Brody used it to rebuild.

Hell, if he could stick his dick in that sweetness, he would probably forget all of his darkness, too.

Or not.

Fucking her would be a beautifully primal act. He could tell by the sounds she and Pretty Boy made, the ways she let him fuck her, how their bodies merged and moved as one... She dropped all of her masks when she was with that delicious Blue-Eyed boy. She poured everything she was into him, filling in the cracks, so he could rebuild the walls around himself.

And Gabriel had spent a lot of hard work tearing down those deceitful walls, smashing those lies society had created. The manners. The nobility. The self-righteousness.

Pretty Boy was just an animal like the rest of them. And rather than showing that to him when they fucked, this Doe-Eyed Sweet Thing made him believe that he was the lies he'd been before.

She needed a lesson, too.

He'd teach her one. Make Pretty Boy watch his glue dissolve as he fell to pieces once more. And maybe he'd keep the pair of them for a little while longer than normal. This would likely be his last hoorah. No one could match the ecstasy of breaking Chris LaSalle, and now with the added bonus of that delectable bit of pussy he kept.

It would be difficult to decide which one to fuck first. Try out the fresh cunt and ass. Or return to the best fuck he'd ever had. Hell, he wouldn't deny the fact that he jerked off to the memories of burying his cock in Pretty Boy's tight back passage, recalling the way the man tensed and squirmed, how his shapely buttocks cushioned the thrusts, quivering as he pounded into him. Gabriel also had been having quite intense wet dreams about the times he'd taken Pretty Boy's cock into his own ass, riding him, staring into his dark blue, intense eyes. Or of sucking the man off, making him come against his will, whimpering and moaning. And the one time Gabriel let that pretty mouth part around his own engorged organ.

It would be pure primal ecstasy having his pet locked up in his playroom again. Along with that bonus treat. And destroying them both. Truly nothing would satisfy after them. So he'd have to make it last. He'd play with them a little first.

This was uncharted territory. And it could be fun to watch them squirm and suffer within the walls of their cozy little social-constructs.

Whoever said he wasn't into foreplay?

* * *

 **A/N1: Well that escalated quickly. I honestly hadn't meant for this to be more than friendly love… But it's sounding a little like romantic love, isn't it?**

 **A/N2: Before you run away because of the 'gross' content of this chapter… This was inspired by the novel 'The Reliable Wife' in which the contrast between the woman's former lover (who would never finish inside of her because he was terrified of getting her pregnant) and her husband (who bedded her every night even when she was bleeding) intrigued me, had always stuck with me, and seemed pertinent in this context. I thought it was an excellent way to show an intimacy and affection and acceptance so intense that even social taboos (with no basis in biological fact) become meaningless. I also wanted the comparison here of Chris' accepting every aspect of Merri, as she has done him.**

 **A/N 3: Sort of ignoring the nonsensical fact dropped in 'Billy and the Kid' about LaSalle's father, when we've never heard anything about the man before by someone who loves and talks about his family quite a bit. Personally, I prefer the impression that all previous information created, that his father just wasn't around. It also makes his relationship with Pride far more significant. So that's my head canon…. LaSalle's father was a Deadbeat Dad. He was raised by his mother and siblings. And later, Pride fulfilled that role in his life.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Wondering how our favorite agents got to this point, how LaSalle's abduction affected the rest of the team? Check out Marjorie K Place's companion fic,** _ **All Soulled Out**_ **.**

 **There's some completely made-up computer mumbo-jumbo in this chapter. I have no idea what I'm talking about, but judging by the 'science' things they do in the canon, it's safe to say the technology aspect is rather bogus, so disclaimer: made-up computer whatnot.**

 **WARNING: COARSE LANGUAGE. REFERENCES TO ADULT SUBJECT MATTER AND NON-CONSENSUAL SEX (I think that might just be the overall warning for this fic. Nothing too explicit in this chapter, I don't think…)**

* * *

"Lover Boy just can't get along wi'out ya, can he?"

Merri pulled her phone out of her pocket, checked the text message. She'd wanted to rub it in Sonja Percy's face that it wasn't Chris LaSalle. And the man could get along fine without her. And that he wasn't her 'Lover Boy' and Percy should watch her stupid, big mouth, which often hurt their traumatized coworker without the sardonic agent ever realizing it.

Except, it _was_ Chris who'd texted her. With a couple more suggestions for evening activities. And no, they were still rather innocent. She had a feeling they'd get lewder as the day went on, and he tracked down leads with Pride while Merri was stuck finishing up processing the scene with Percy. Without the odd grope or brushing up against one another in the office when no one was looking, they tended to get more verbally expressive. And when they couldn't say things to one another... that's when the dirty texts started.

"Oh, It's 'Date Night' i'n't?" The smaller woman crowed in a sing-song as she clambered out of the abandoned sedan's driver's seat, evidence bag in hand.

Merri could only shrug in response, focusing on replying to Chris that wings and beer were fine, especially since he offered the compromise of her picking a 'chick flick' for the movie if she wanted.

It _was_ Date Night even though "We're not dating, Sonja."

She rolled her eyes. Merri had the count at 23 times already since that morning. She wondered if the caustic agent would ever realize she'd never make a close friend until she dropped the fake 'tough' attitude.

"Bullshit," Percy said, putting her hands on her hips and making her bulldog face. "You're sleepin' together. You have 'Date Nights'. An' the way that boy looks at ya, all pathetic lovesick puppy... Trailin' after ya..."

"It's not like that," Merri said, pocketing her phone to give her fellow agent a stern look. Didn't the woman know not to go there? Didn't she know how messed up Chris LaSalle was? That teasing him about his love life was the worst possible move she could make?

Well, Merri supposed she was the one being harassed. But, "You just don't get it."

Okay, bad choice. Merri knew better than to do or say anything remotely antagonizing to the former-ATF agent. She tended to freak out, go into full Bitch Mode at the slightest provocation. Even though she'd been the one doing the provoking.

"What is there to get?" Now she was glaring, a superior sort of sneer on her face (which could be quite pretty if she just dropped the bitch face once in a while). "He got himself in trouble, couldn't handle the consequences, and now you're coddlin' him."

Anger welled up quick and hot, the taste of bile biting at the back of her throat and Merri had to grab her pant legs, fingers curling into fists, just so she wouldn't do something inadvisable, like deck the mouthy bitch in the face. Because Percy might think she was tough shit, but Brody could and would take her ass down if she ever said something so degrading about Chris LaSalle again.

"You need to shut the fuck up about things you don't understand," Merri said, her voice calm, as smooth and cold as ice. She glared unwaveringly at the shorter woman, who tried for a moment to glare back, but ultimately closed her trap and looked away.

After a moment of tense silence, Merri donned her professional persona again. "I'll take the evidence we've collected to Sebastian."

Merri methodically packed up the evidence bags into the plastic crate. Percy stood there, staring at her as she hefted it up into her arms.

"What do ya want me to do, B?"

 _That's it. Act like you didn't do anything wrong, Sonja Percy. You never do anything wrong, do you?_

"Come on, Brody! You're my supervising agent for the day. I'm supposed to follow your orders," she called after the older agent, but Merri continued walking up the slope towards the SUV.

 _Go jump off a fucking bridge, bitch_ , she thought. Without turning around, she said, "Pack up here, see if Pride has any leads for you to track down."

She took a minute after sliding into the driver's seat of the government issue SUV to calm herself. She'd overreacted. Her protectiveness of Chris LaSalle was extremely high, she knew. But Sonja Percy needed to stop sticking her nose in where it didn't belong. Her know-it-all attitude often got on Merri's nerves. And she had no right to think she knew what was going on with Chris, or between him and Merri.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. And she smiled in anticipation of Chris' text.

Only it wasn't from Chris.

It was a picture message from an unknown caller. If she wasn't a law enforcement officer who gave out her number to potential informants, she never would've accepted it. Probably a lewd penis pic from some random asshole who got off on harassing complete strangers. But it could also be something related to the case they were working, or any number of the handful of ongoing ones she was listed as an investigating agent on.

The picture loaded.

It wasn't a penis pic. It was of someone's naked ass.

Only it wasn't just anyone's bare backside. It was Chris LaSalle's. The elephant tattoo on his left buttock was unmistakable. Sure, there could be other men out there with the same tattoo, and it was a common location. But she knew that body. It was just the ass, a little upper thigh, part of the lower back. But it was Chris.

She attempted to figure out how he'd managed to take a photo like that of himself, and then a knot of pure cold dread formed in her stomach. The angle, the plain grey background, a little wrinkled, like he was laying on his stomach, on a bed. She swallowed the lump that had formed as the knot of dread reached up and squeezed her throat. Her hand began to tremble, the phone nearly slipping out of her weakening grasp.

It vibrated again and she did drop it, surprised. Fumbling to recover it from her lap, she forced herself to read the next message from the same unknown number.

/If you think that sweet ass belongs to you now, you've got another thing coming, bitch./

Oh, god. She couldn't breathe. There was only one person that could've sent her that photo, that text. Her lungs burned, like she'd just run six miles or pushed herself past her limit in a sprint. She threw her phone willy-nilly, desperate to get it away from her, as if it was burning her palm. It hit the passenger door with a loud clatter. She'd probably cracked the screen. She couldn't care. She couldn't unsee that photo. The muscles bunched and tensed beneath his skin, the red hand-shaped welts and bruises on the round swell of his naked buttocks... the flare of the camera flash in the wet substance coating his ass and thighs... the-

She opened the driver's side door, desperate for air. Percy was standing there, giving her a genuinely concerned look. The older agent had been wrong to think so badly of the woman, treat her like she had.

"You okay, Merri?" she asked.

"Yeah." It came out as an inaudible gasp, so Merri closed her eyes, took a deep breath in through her nose, held it, and released it slowly before trying again. "Yes. I'm fine."

To say Sonja looked doubtful was a massive understatement.

"Just haven't eaten yet today," Merri said. It was an unfortunately common occurrence for the agents when they got pulled into a case. And the smaller woman nodded with what could almost be called sympathy on her face. "Got a little dizzy."

"And took it out on your phone?"

"Yup."

They exchanged a look that said Percy wasn't buying what she was selling but after the earlier outburst from the older woman, wasn't going to push her luck.

"Better let me drive until ya get some food in ya," she said, and Merri nodded, walking around unsteadily to the passenger's side. She didn't have to fake the faint, panicky feeling or the way her hands were shaking. Low blood sugar was a good enough excuse until she could calm down and figure out what the hell she was going to do about receiving an anonymous text message from someone who could only be Chris LaSalle's rapist.

* * *

"What's this?" Patton Plame looked up from the white bag she'd deposited on the desk before him.

"Just a little something to show my appreciation for your wonderful hack- _computer_ skills." Merri used her innocent smile, but given everything happening that day, she doubted it was all that convincing.

Nope. Definitely not. Patton gave her a skeptical look, but he was grinning.

"It looks like some sort of bribe to me," he said, opening the bag. "In the form of a... shrimp burger?"

"You know it," she said, giving him a wink. The feeling of detached surrealism had only been growing throughout the day, since she'd received that first horrid text message. But she often had to don a mask not her own in order to break suspects. Only this time, she was trying to the don the mask of her normal self in a happy mood. And she was most definitely not in a happy mood. Nor did she feel like her 'normal' self.

"Alright, appreciative and generous Agent Brody," Patton set it aside, locked the rare stern version of his dark gaze on her face. "What can I do for you?"

She'd made it this far. He now knew something was up, so she might as well follow through and ask for the help she needed.

"I was wondering if you could trace a cell phone number..." The computer whiz didn't respond, obviously knowing there was more to the request. "...Off the books."

"Crazy ex-boyfriend giving you a hard time or somethin'?" Patton asked, turning to face his computer once more.

"Guess you could put it that way," she said, giving him the number when he asked and began typing it into his triangulation software.

"I take it they're using a prepaid or... _damn_."

"What?" Merri leaned over his shoulder to look at the computer screen, as if she could make anything of the data there.

"Are they just sending you text messages?"

Merri swallowed. Patton wouldn't be able to access them, would he? Maybe she'd better give him some parameters for this favor. The reason she'd gone to him first was to protect Chris, to prevent those terrible, disgusting photos from being exposed, to keep the man she'd grown to love intensely from being exposed to more pain and shame. Pride could be discreet, she knew. But she didn't want the man who was like a father to Chris to see him like that. And she had a feeling he would insist on taking control of the situation, and burdening himself with all that entailed. And so she'd chosen to deal with this on her own (for now). And not just because it would destroy Chris to have his friend and mentor see his shame. But because Merri had witnessed the agony Pride went through when his surrogate son disappeared, and when he was returned broken, a shadow of the young agent he loved.

"Um... photos, too," she said. The computer expert glanced at her, his expression growing concerned. "Please don't tell anyone, Patton. This needs to stay between us. And please don't ask me to show you the messages."

He nodded, frowning. "I respect you, Brody. So I'll respect your privacy. But you know we're family here. An' we'd-"

"I know," she squeezed the now distraught man's shoulder. "But I can handle this. I just need you to get me a location."

"Well, that's the tricky part." He typed away as he spoke. "It looks like your mystery texter is spoofing a phone. They're not actually using a cell phone, but a computer and bouncing the signal around a bit. I might be able to hone in on it when they send you another text... If they-"

"They will," Merri said coldly. "Let me know when you get anything."

"Will do," he said, a cheerful smile as fake as her earlier one on his face. He dropped it for his true concern. "And if you wanna talk..."

This time Merri smiled a small, true smile. She squeezed his shoulder again.

"Thanks, Patton."

* * *

There would be no point in alarming Chris, or any of their friends, for that matter, if they couldn't get a location on the creep who was sending the degrading photos to her phone. It would only dredge up trauma, inflict further suffering. And Merri refused to give the bastard the satisfaction of continuing to exercise any sort of power over the most wonderful person she'd ever known.

And so now she had to lie to Chris LaSalle. It was more of an omission, but it was still going to involve deceit, and the outright lie of 'I'm fine' when he inevitably noticed she was off and asked her if she was okay.

She had to believe she was okay, that everything was perfectly fine. Nothing had changed since that morning. Everything was as it was the previous day... Her, slowly but surely losing her heart and soul to the man she insisted was only her friend... Him, slowly but surely finding himself once more, becoming comfortable and learning to love the world again... The unspoken fears about their peculiar arrangement... That they wouldn't be able to end it when the time came... Or worse, that they _would_.

Merri genuinely smiled to herself as she browsed through the library of movies on the little computer screen... little only by modern standards. It was odd. The future was nothing like what she'd thought it would be as a child, apparently consuming too much popular science fiction like _Back to the Future_. And yet, in some ways, so many things had changed with the advancement of technology. Here she was, standing outside of a supermarket at a kiosk, renting a movie. It didn't seem that long ago that the task had involved a physical store, shelves upon shelves of VHS tapes, and then DVDs (but at the point, they were already dying off). Now, she didn't even have to make this stop, if she didn't want to. They could just opt to stream something off the internet onto Chris' ridiculously large flat screen tv.

The problem was that they never could decide what to watch, with such a huge selection at their fingertips. Sometimes, limits were good. A smaller, self-contained world. It felt more intimate. Cozier. Safer even.

Was that what she'd been doing with Chris? Insulating him against the harshness of the world?

And so what if it was? He fucking deserved some protection, a safe place in which he was allowed to be content, joyful even. She would do whatever it took to preserve that, to protect him. Even if it meant breaking the vow she'd made to herself to always be completely open and honest with the psychologically fragile man.

Merri decided to forgo the made-for-tv style romances. Normally, the poor writing and acting wouldn't bother her, because they always wound up too busy to pay attention anyway, making out... or falling asleep after a long hard day. Curled up together on the sofa. His warm, firm body entangled with hers, surrounding hers, the scent of his skin and soap and deodorant and sweat enveloping her like the blanket they pulled over themselves. His heart beating softly, rhythmically in his chest... God, that's all she wanted.

She wanted to forget the day, the horrible, stressful, traumatizing day, and lose herself in Chris LaSalle. But she wasn't sure if she'd be able to forget, banish those scarring images from her mind as she looked at her beautiful friend, into his pretty dark blue eyes, touched him, kissed him. She might only be able to see him, suffering, in pain, degraded and abused, breaking her heart all over again. The guilt had already begun to resurface, the sense that she'd failed him so horribly. She wanted it to all go away, to forget it for a while.

So she picked something she could watch and mindlessly lose herself in. It was an older rom-com, but a good one. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and her stomach dropped like a stone. It was probably just Chris, wondering what her ETA was. But she'd become conditioned throughout this crappy day to flinch whenever her phone vibrated, to dread the screen flickering to life in her hand.

Seven.

Seven photos of Chris, being raped, being tortured, his body bruised and defiled. Would eight be her undoing? The last straw that broke her fragile resolve. She could ignore it. She could just not look.

Except, what if it provided some sort of clue? What if it led her, led their team, their family to the monster that abused the man who was very much their heart? Pride was the glue that bound them, the shell, the skin and connective tissue that held them together into a cohesive unit, but Chris was what gave them life. And his near-destruction required avenging. She would make the bastard pay for what he'd done to her friend, her heart.

But apparently, she was going to have to suffer for it.

It was a video.

And she thought there could be nothing worse than the photos, seeing him frozen in pain. But her phone's volume had been turned up because for the last call she'd been on speakerphone with Pride about the case. And hearing it as well... It was so much worse.

It was... There were no words. 'Evil' was so overused it didn't accurately represent this. Nothing could accurately define what this was. Torment. Agony. Degradation. Shame. Manipulation.

She should've stopped it.

But she didn't.

She watched all 3 minutes and 47 seconds of the video. It was that seemingly insane human instinct to jump, to face terror head on. Not so much to fight, but just because somewhere along the line the instinct for fight or flight had transformed into the risky behavior that lent human beings their curiosity, and with it, all of the adaptability and success of the species. And that instinct to learn, to know, even when 99.99% percent of her wanted to turn away, was disgusted and terrified and heartbroken, that ingrained curiosity won out. And she would suffer with it the rest of her life.

Maybe she supposed she deserved it. For failing him.

This, this had only been four minutes of 32 days for Chris LaSalle. Merri knew she wouldn't have survived it. And god forgive her, she loved Chris even more for suffering it, for living through it, healing, still being the wonderful person he was despite the constant shadow on his soul.

She understood now why he'd considered eating a bullet. He had told her how Pride had saved him in the dark weeks following his return, simply by being there, by denying him the easy out his service weapon would've granted.

She sat in her vehicle in the supermarket parking lot for awhile. Not crying. She was too numb for that now. The pain was so intense it couldn't be explored, had to be shoved down deep and locked away. Because he was waiting for her. She had to go back to him. And pretend her heart wasn't torn to pieces on his behalf. She had to give him affection and support and normalcy, not burst into tears and hug him so tightly that she bruised his flesh and suffocated him, and never ever let him leave her sight, _ever_.

* * *

"What's wrong?"

Closing her eyes Merri swallowed. Chris LaSalle wasn't stupid. And she wasn't stupid enough to think he wouldn't notice. But still, she'd hoped she could get by, just for the night. But alas, no luck. She felt his fingers, strong and warm take her hands.

When she opened her eyes again, his blue ones were studying her with concern. He, who'd suffered so terribly, who must always be living with that suffering, the memory of it a persistent phantom, _he_ was concerned for her. Oh, God _love_ him. If she was the praying type, that would be her only prayer for the rest of her days. That Chris LaSalle be loved and protected.

"Just a long day," she said, as he began to massage her hands. Merri made a pleased noise, she couldn't help it. The man was so very skilled at touching her in _just_ the right way, knew where and how much pressure and... heavenly.

"Percy?" he asked, knowing that the mouthy agent often gave her a headache.

"Yeah." It wasn't an outright lie. Percy had aggravated her, and then proved quite helpful. That seemed to be the woman's standard operating procedure. And it made Merri feel a little guilty for snapping so horribly at her.

Chris began kissing her hands and she knew she'd have to stall him somehow or they'd be making out on the sofa, movie and dinner forgotten, consumed by the wonderful bliss of him and the images from those photos, that vivid video haunting her.

She turned on the sofa to face him better, and he paused in his attentions, studying her once more, like he didn't know every expression her face was capable of making, every inch of her skin, every noise she made when he touched her. And that was part of why she was falling so inadvisably hard for him. Every single time he looked at her, it was as if he was truly seeing her and appreciating everything she was for the first time.

She pulled her hands out of his, brought them to cup his face as she stared into his stunning midnight blue eyes.

"You are the most beautiful human being I have ever known," she said. Adorably, he looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink. How had the 'timid little boy' coyness not been ripped entirely from him?

Because, he was strong. And so fucking amazing that it hurt her. That sort of pain that wasn't pain, that kind of joy so intense it was like the awe of kneeling, cowering before God. Love and admiration that filled her until her heart ached.

And that wasn't even considering all of the suffering the man had endured, which broke her heart in a whole other way. He was beautiful, so affectionate and compassionate and innocent and scarred and vulnerable and strong and funny and silly and _beautiful_. She couldn't stand it, the knowledge of him being used. Not just tortured, but _used_.

"I'm exhausted, Chris," she said, dropping her hands but still holding his eyes. "I want to just take a nice, long, hot shower and go to bed."

He grinned. His gorgeous, goofy grin.

"Is that an invitation?"

Part of her -a very large part- wanted it to be. So much, she wanted it to be. But another part of her was terrified of the horror she'd hastily stuffed into a box in the back of her mind, threatening to burst open like a demented jack-in-the-box. She was afraid those images would pop up when they were in the throes of passion. Worse, she was afraid they would overwhelm her, make her break down and weep. And have to tell him why, have to wound him with the fact she not only knew (some of the details he'd already shared with her) but had witnessed his torture and humiliation.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"Maybe the shower will wake me up a little," she said, knowing she couldn't put it off forever, knowing how her body yearned for the comfort of his. "Meet you in bed?"

He grabbed her before she could flee to the bathroom, stole a more intimate kiss, with tongue and lusty little sounds from them both. Merri thought she might just risk it, for the joy of tumbling between the sheets with her beautiful, lively, _alive_ Chris LaSalle.

Besides, he'd know something was seriously wrong if she wasn't up for a little fooling around. (That's what she got for being addicted to the man, and more sexually active with him than any other lover she'd ever had.)

She tried not to let her new (unwanted) knowledge show as they made love that night. But she couldn't help but focus on the line of scars, small round marks trailing down the skin of his torso, studying them with the tips of her fingers and tongue, hoping it wasn't reminding him, as it was reminding her, of their origin. She couldn't and didn't fight the image of him, his skin pierced through with a series of metal barbs running from nipple to hip, small drops of crimson blood on pale flesh. Instead she tried to soothe them with her touch, heal the old wounds that were fresh to her mind.

When she brought him to climax inside of her, she tried not to notice how the expression of physical ecstasy on his face was similar to how he looked in that video. That same expression of pleasure she knew so well now, only mixed with anguish.

She held him close afterward, slowly caressing his naked, sweat-coated skin, nuzzling his cheek and throat and neck, reveling in him. And then wondering if his tormentor had done the same. Chris had said the monster had also been tender with him, which had severely fucked with his head, she knew. How could he ever stand to be touched again?

Was it because he could see straight through her heart and soul, her intentions laid bare to him?

He must know she was madly in love with him, then.

He must see she was now hiding things from him.

But he mentioned neither, just wrapped his arms around her and hugged her to him, falling asleep with her name a sigh on his lips.

* * *

Despite being an intelligent woman by all accounts he'd accessed, Meredith Brody was responding precisely the way Gabriel had hoped she would. The protective streak in her had been apparent. She was strong-willed, and capable of donning oh-so-many masks. She may shed them when fucking the man she thought belonged to her. But not anymore. She hadn't told him about the love notes Gabriel had been sending her, out of some misplaced sense of responsibility for her lover. She was trying to protect him.

Gabriel had waited all day to see what her response would be, if she'd call in the Calvary. If she'd done so, it would've made things much trickier for him to get his hands on his targets. It would be difficult enough if she told Pretty Boy, putting them both on guard.

Hell, if he'd been interested in simply snatching them up and dragging them home to play with, Gabriel would've just done so by now. Silently broken in one night through the window which Chris LaSalle didn't realize the alarm had been bypassed in. Do it when they were curled up in bed together, sound asleep, sated by their nocturnal activities (like they were this very moment). A quick tranquilizer dart, one right after the other, and neither would have the response time necessary to even strike back. Load them in the trunk and drive off. He'd be two states away before anyone even realized they were gone.

But where was the fun in that?

Well, there would be fun in that, he had to admit. But there was also a thrill in stalking his prey like this, toying with them a little. And Doe-Eyes was as intriguing as Pretty Boy had been... _still was_...

* * *

Merri's phone buzzed like an angry bee on the nightstand, announcing a text message at 3:12am, startling her awake with a feeling of pure dread preceding any conscious thought. She reached out blindly, grabbed it, turned away from a gentle snoring Chris and tried to steel herself against what she knew it must be.

No photos at least.

/He thinks of me when he's fucking you, doesn't he?/

Her phone buzzed again.

/You were. I could tell./

Then a photo. The lighting was poor, the quality pretty terrible. But it was unmistakable.

She quietly extricated herself from Chris' bed, made her way to the bathroom on light feet, easing the door closed behind her and carefully lifting the toilet lid. Then she promptly threw up the beer and wings she'd managed to consume for dinner despite her lack of appetite.

 _He_ was watching them.

* * *

 **A/N: What's Merri going to do? How far will she go to protect Chris? How far will he let her? And what are Gabriel's plans for his favorite playthings?**

 **A/N2: Maybe I was a little too rough on Percy… But a lot of it was Merri also being overly sensitive on the topic of her lover-not-lover. (And I can't help it. Percy is so shallow, self-centered and rude a character, I feel like she would make social mis-steps in sensitive situations… Not sure how she was an effective undercover agent when she's so off-putting. She'd never gain my trust or confidence.)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Let the turmoil begin… ;-)**

 **WARNING: COARSE LANGUAGE. REFERENCES TO MATURE/DISTURBING SUBJECT MATTER (nothing too graphic or explicit, I don't think)**

* * *

Big hands on his lower back, an immense weight pressing him down, an agonizing heat filling him. A voice like the growl of a bear, low and rumbling. _You like it. Let me hear you say it. Beg for it. You like being fucked._

 _You like being fucked._

Chris woke with a shuddering gasp, his heart beating like it wanted to tear its way out of his chest. It was disturbing and disheartening that he'd had yet another nightmare when he thought maybe he'd finally shaken them. He reached for his solace.

"Merri?"

Her side of the bed was empty. Something constricted in his chest. A panic attack. He tried to get ahead of it, slipping out of the bed and turning on the bedside lamp. The woman, _his_ woman, his comfort, his soul... She wasn't in the bedroom. Just her work clothes lying in a pile on the floor. Along with her nightie?

Curiosity quickly pushed the night terror away, and Chris pulled on a pair of sweats to pad out of his bedroom in bare feet and search the rest of his house for his Pseudo-Girlfriend (whom he could no longer deny he loved and needed more than any actual girlfriend he'd ever had). He wandered through his living room and kitchen, softly calling her name, but there was no sign of her.

Okay, that was an untrue statement. There were signs of her everywhere. A cardigan tossed over the back of a chair, wineglass beside the sink, a stack of newspapers folded to the same page, crosswords in various stages of completion. One of her lacy pairs of panties was peaking out from under a couch cushion. Her shoes were by the door; her black boots she wore to work, her strappy little red heels she'd worn when they went out three nights ago... But her favorite casual ones (an old, slightly ratty pair of converse) were missing.

Had she gone out for something?

Her sweatshirt, a heather gray NAVY hoodie wasn't on its hook. Her keys and wallet weren't in the place she usually put them on the table beside the door. Why would she go out and not tell him? Leave him a note, at least?

Had she gotten sick? He checked the bathroom again. Her toothbrush looked damp, like she'd recently used it. Maybe she had gotten sick, and decided to go to the store for some ginger ale or something. Some fake boyfriend he was, sleeping through her throwing up her dinner. He grimaced. It wouldn't be a pleasant dinner to throw up either, spicy and acidic.

She had seemed off that evening. Maybe she was getting the flu. Alarm struck him briefly, but it was easy enough to rationalize away. She couldn't be pregnant. Not only was she on birth control, but they always, _always_ used protection. For her safety as much as contraception. Just in case he'd…

Chris plopped down on the sofa, turned the tv on. It was tuned to an infomercial for some bizarre and unnecessary gadget that supposedly would miraculously make your like easier. He wondered if the miracle item could make his night terrors go away. There was no use climbing back into bed to wait for Merri. If he even did fall asleep, it wouldn't end well. Not alone in bed. He'd spent too many days and nights strapped down on a mattress, alone and dreading the next round of abuse, whether it was rape or torture. Oddly, he'd begun to hope for the rape. At least the variety when his tormentor had been tender. It hadn't hurt so much then. Just the shame of his own sexual arousal and climax.

He reached down, tugged at the scrap of lace he knew was hanging out from the cushion, pulling the pair of panties free. They hadn't been there long. Just a few days. They were red lace, had matched her entire outfit, which was such a Merri Brody thing. She'd clad herself entirely in red, from her ruby-stained lips to her slinky dress to her strappy high-heeled shoes, to her matching bra and underwear. It had amused him, made him laugh, made him hard.

Like a pervert, he brought the pair of panties to his face and breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of his Merri. If she'd seen him do it, she might've raised an eyebrow at him, but he doubted she would berate him for it. The scent of her comforted him. And he needed it, the memories were stalking him, prowling about the edges of his mind, waiting for the right moment to pounce and tear his throat out. Her presence was like an impenetrable barrier that kept them out.

He needed her.

Despite never telling her, he figured she must know how much he needed her. He wondered if she'd figured out that he only slept in a bed when with her. Otherwise, the phantom restraints, hands, _monster_ , manifested, making his chest constrict and his stomach twist. On their nights apart (one a week), he wound up on the sofa or the bedroom floor, using an item of her clothing as a pillow. He didn't want to admit he couldn't bear being apart from her a single night. Because like her, he feared the bizarre codependency that had formed between them. He knew he needed her more than she needed him, but it was plain to tell she'd grown addicted to their relationship, and not just the sex.

Coming home to someone was a particularly wonderful high.

Maybe this was all a strange form of self-medicating. He'd turned to alcohol and sex to ease his pain when Savannah had been murdered. Now he'd turned to love and affection (and deeply emotional sex). Was it any different?

Well, it might end in a broken heart or two, but it wouldn't put him in a psychopath's den, being raped and tortured in an endless cycle for what felt an eternity.

So, yeah. This was different. And he liked it. He loved it. Loved _her_.

Where _was_ she?

* * *

"Whoa. Calm down, Christopher." The older man's hand fell on his shoulder, solid and reassuring. "Take a breath, and start over."

"Merri's gone, King!" It was hard enough to breathe, let alone speak. He had a bad feeling. An extremely, gut-wrenching, soul-murdering sort feeling. It was hollow and yet was burning him up inside. "I woke up an' she wa'n't there."

"I take it, she was spendin' the night at your place?" Pride's look was all concern, but Chris couldn't help but feel a little patronized by his close friend. If you'd have asked him a year ago who his best friend was, he would've said 'Dwayne Pride' without a second's hesitation. And the man still was an extremely good friend to him. It was just... Merri was the center of his goddang world now. She was not as much a best friend, as the other half of his soul. And being without her, it was a physical ache in his chest.

"Uh... Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. He and Merri, they were never openly affectionate. He'd avoided the whole issue with Pride, too afraid that the man who personified Chris' wisdom would disapprove. If Dwayne Pride said it was a bad idea, well... He couldn't face that, letting Merri go. She'd been the only comfort he'd had. The rock that kept him from getting swept away in the dark tumultuous tide.

"So, what happened?" Pride's gentle tone encouraged him to focus, to not dwell on what his life would be like if he lost the only thing that kept his head above water.

"We went ta bed round nine..." Crap. Maybe that was a bad way to put it. But Pride needed to know the details. Well, some of the details. Maybe he could see something Chris wasn't in his blind panic. "An' uh... fell asleep by midnight."

A smile twitched in the corner of the older man's mouth as Chris felt his face turn pink and hot.

"I sleep dang solid..." _...When Merri's cuddled up wi' me..._ "So I ain't sure when she woke up. God, somethin' mighta happened an I was jus' lyin there, dead ta the world, King. What if-"

"You would've woken up if something happened in your house Chris, if she needed your help." Pride seemed so certain of this. It provided some measure of relief. But she was still missing.

"I had a nightmare an' when I woke up, she wa'n' there. It was 3:47am."

Pride nodded, contemplative look on his face.

"She wa'n' anywhere, but a set a her clothes an' shoes were missin, an' her toothbrush was wet, so I figured mebbe-"

"She'd gotten sick, went to a pharmacy to get something," Pride said, getting that look Chris knew so well as 'King's decision-making' face. He wasn't shocked in the least that his mentor was arriving at the same conclusions that Chris himself had. The man had helped train him up, after all.

"So I decided ta jus' set an' wait fer her but it was takin' too long an' so I tried callin' her cell but she didn' answer an' then I heard it ringin' an'-"

Chris took a choking breath, breaking the stream of words that had been spilling with ever-increasing rapidity and incoherency. Whereas his friend had been thoughtful and a little concerned but calm before, the color had drained from his face slightly. They both knew Merri was always within arm's reach of her phone. Not because she was a social media addict, but because she was committed to her job.

"Where'd ya find it?" Pride's voice was still calm. Unsettlingly calm. Because Chris knew the nuanced variations in his friend's demeanor. And this was 'business calm', meant to outwardly display a sentiment that the man did not feel inside.

"Outside my bedroom window." Chris squeezed his eyes closed, shaking his head in disbelief, as if it might all be a horrible dream when he opened them again. "What do ya think-"

"We'll find her, Chris." The older man had his arm draped across Chris' shoulders, guiding him out of the senrior agent's room, and through the office, towards his truck. "Have ya checked her place?"

Panic had such a tight grip on his insides again, Chris found himself unable to speak, instead just nodded mutely.

"And she wasn't there."

He shook his head, pulling his keys out of his pocket, which Pride gently relieved him of.

"I'll drive." It wasn't offer. It was a command. One Chris was actually more than a little happy to submit to. It was a comfort having Pride 'on the case' as it were. There never was a more compassionate yet level-headed man. Chris could trust him to do everything that needed to be done, to make the right decisions.

Only sometimes, that wasn't enough was it?

He tried to ignore that nagging, sickening thought. It had been larger, darker at one time, even though he'd always tried to ignore it. Because they'd done everything they could to find him, to save him. He knew they had. And yet, some part of him had blamed them for failing. Not nearly as much as he blamed himself. It was like a drop in an ocean of loathing, primarily for his own stupidity and poor choices.

But his team, his friends, his _family_ had tried to find him and failed. Had tried everything they could think of, everything they could possibly do... Just, sometimes, it wasn't enough.

No. It might not be anything. He might just be freaking out because he'd had another night terror and Merri wasn't there to assuage the anxiety. Maybe he'd only transferred it, projected it onto her absence. His first thought, Pride's first thought had been right. She'd merely gone to the store or something.

But her phone...

"This is where you found it?" Pride asked when Chris took him outside after giving him a tour of the house, too worried to be ashamed about the tossed bedding and clothing items strewn about, Merri's red lace panties now sitting in plain view on the coffee table.

"Yeah." Chris pointed to the ground beneath the bedroom window. "It was sittin' right there. I looked 'round but there wa'n't any sign a her."

"Where'd she park, do ya know?"

Her car wasn't where she'd left it. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Damn. He knew there was a reason he'd woken Pride up well before dawn even without substantial evidence that something was seriously wrong. He was already seeing things Chris was too close to see, asking the right sort of questions.

"An' it wasn't at her place, either?"

LaSalle shook his head.

"Good."

How was that good? There was no way she'd dropped her phone and left it by accident, hopping in her car and headed someplace without noticing it was gone. That just wasn't Merri Brody.

"She got a GPS locator in her car?" Pride asked in his Socratic Teaching Method tone.. He just couldn't ever stop being a mentor, could he? Chris didn't care. They'd have a location on Merri as soon as they woke Patton Plame up and dragged him into the office.

* * *

"This have somethin' to do with the creep sending her texts?" Patton asked as he brought up the tracking software and hacked the manufacturer database to get the serial number on the vehicle's built-in GPS.

"What?" Pride asked in unison with Chris.

The computer tech shifted in his chair.

"She made me promise not to tell y'all." He put up his hands in a placating gesture. "Believe me, I woulda told ya, man, if I knew it was this serious."

Patton went back to typing as Pride sighed. Chris was already fumbling the phone out of his pocket. Maybe they should've put it in an evidence bag, taken it to Sebastian to lift prints off, but both of the agents had been clinging to the optimistic theory that she'd just unwittingly dropped her phone (out of her hoodie pocket maybe) and had simply gone to run some mysterious errand at 3:30 in the morning. It wasn't likely. And maybe they should've assumed foul play from the beginning... But... Chris just wouldn't have been able to hold it together if Pride started talking... _abduction_.

He woke up the phone's screen. She kept it locked because of the work-related material she stored in its memory, but Chris knew the password. He went to her recent texts. They were mostly from him. Pride, Percy, Loretta... Her mom... But right near the top, an unsaved contact. Just a string of numbers. He tapped it to open the one-sided conversation that seized his heart for a beat or two.

And then there was that panicky, drowning feeling pressing on his chest like a boulder, like a mountain. There wasn't enough air in the tiny, cluttered and cramped office. He felt something touch his back, making him jump, and then there was a crashing sound as various computer parts fell off the shelf he'd just backed into. He bolted for the courtyard. He needed air. He couldn't breathe.

He didn't make it to the patio furniture, his legs giving out on him halfway there and making him collapse into a pathetic heap on the paving stones, Merri's phone clutched in his hand in a death grip.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

He'd never escaped Hell. The lull…That brief amount of happiness he'd had with Merri, it was all a trick. Eventually, a soul became so worn down it grew inured to the torments of Hades. He must've needed a brief reminder of what joy felt like, so his suffering wouldn't dull into a bland sort of irritation. It had to be sharp, a little jagged when it was plunged into his gut and twisted to cause the maximum amount of agony.

"Christopher."

Pride's voice as infuriatingly and relievedly calm as ever drew his attention. The man was crouching down beside him. Not touching him. He knew better than to try to touch him when he got like this. Another thing that had been stripped from him. Chris used to interact with such ease with other people, the physical contact as welcome as the verbal. A nudge of an elbow to his side, a pat on the shoulder or back, shaking hands, accidentally bumping into someone because you were in a packed bar but it was all okay.

It wasn't okay.

Nothing was okay.

Would she ever touch him again? Would he ever have the chance to touch her smooth, warm skin, kiss her soft, sweet lips, hold her so tight against him he could feel her heart beating one more time?

"Can I see the phone?"

He absently handed it to his friend. He couldn't find the self-consciousness to care about the photos the man would see on it. Fuck. In some of them, Chris knew he looked like he was enjoying being raped and tortured. He couldn't deny the memory of uninvited agonizing pleasure his traitorous body had experienced. He couldn't deny the one photo where he was clinging to his captor, their two bodies entangled, intimately wrapped up in one another. He'd been so desperate for the warmth of a human body, even one that was just a person suit for a monster... He hadn't cared. He'd thought he would die in the dark, cold place, he thought he had died... And then there were big hands touching him tenderly, warm flesh, light and sound and sensation. God, it had hurt his soul. Hating the bastard and himself in equal measure. Wanting to die, thinking he might already be dead, and still the desire to live, the wanting... To feel something anything. To be loved again.

 _Merri..._

He wanted her there with him, to wrap her arms around him, so that he could bury his face in her neck and breathe in the heavenly scent of her. Which was entirely selfish he knew. But he also wanted her to be okay for her own sake. He would do anything just for her to be unharmed.

"He was stalking her, both of you." Pride's voice finally cut through the terrible thoughts and memories that threatened to overwhelm Chris, turn him catatonic if he gave them the chance.

Chris nodded in mute agreement. He'd only hastily taken in the atrocious messages Gabriel had sent her, the photos had sent him back to that Hell too quickly for him to think about anything else. But the last photo... It was of Merri making love to him the previous night, both of them naked in Chris' bed, her straddling his hips, leaning over him to kiss his mouth, her fingers intertwined with his, pinning his hands beside his head. With the painful memories so freshly dredged up from the dark recesses of his mind, Chris sickeningly saw why it appealed to Gabriel, who'd fucked him in the same position... several times. But the experiences were entirely different. Merri was making love to him.

She loved him.

Chris had been able to see it in her eyes. He never said anything. He was too afraid to give it voice. He liked letting the knowledge live pure in his heart, untainted by the feeble attempt words made at defining it.

"You think that this is him?" Pride asked, shocking Chris for a moment. Who the hell else could it fucking be?! But he was right to ask. He had to be logical about this when Chris was entirely incapable of thinking straight at all.

He took the phone back, looked more closely at the messages. Could practically hear that deep, bear-growl voice as he read the words. It was definitely him.

"Yes," he said, feeling a sort of numbness seeping into that hollowed out place in his chest.

"Just because he was sending her texts, doesn't mean that-" Pride began the obvious attempt at comforting the abducted woman's loved one, but was interrupted when Patton came wheeling out into the courtyard at top speed.

"Got a location on her car," he said, breathless, before he read out the address. "Sent it to your phone, Pride."

"C'mon, Christopher." He didn't feel much like pulling himself off the cold, hard ground. Merri wouldn't be there. He knew she wouldn't. And if she was... It wouldn't be... She wouldn't be alive. He supposed he should be thankful though that killing her wasn't Gabriel's style. Or maybe not. Because what the monster did was worse. He'd made Chris want to die, over and over and over... And again right this moment.

Pride hauled him to his feet and he numbly followed his friend out to his truck. The older man still had the keys. He wasn't sure why he opted for the vehicle instead of one of the SUVs, but Chris figured that maybe he was trying to place him more at ease. He'd practically lived out of the truck for a couple of months after Savannah's death, after all. But all Chris couldn't think about was how they wouldn't need the roomier SUV. Because Merri wouldn't be coming back with them. She wouldn't be there.

And she wasn't.

* * *

 **A/N: All signs seem to be that Gabriel's gotten his hands on Merri…? Is that what really happened? And what does that mean for Merri? And for Chris?**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: What happened to Meredith Brody…?**

 **WARNING: COARSE LANGUAGE AND REFERENCES TO THEMES NOT APPROPRIATE FOR YOUNGER OR SENSITIVE AUDIENCES**

* * *

The world was dark. Not the ethereal, spacious dark of night. But a heavy, smothering sort of darkness. It pervaded everything, like a wet wool blanket over her face, suffocating her air, her thoughts... And then skin-on-skin, fingers stroking her cheek, sending waves of electricity through her numbed nerve endings, bringing her back to life.

Merri whimpered.

Someone chuckled.

"Chris?"

"Fraid not, beautiful." It wasn't Chris LaSalle. Her brain seemed to click on and the horror of her situation rushed into her in a debilitating torrent. She ordered her eyes to open, despite not being sure she wanted to confirm what she feared.

Grey.

She closed her eyes. They felt so heavy. Every part of her felt weighted down. That must be whatever the creep had injected into her neck. She hadn't had time to react at all. Being tased in the back of the neck could do that to a woman. Stupid. She shouldn't have gone looking for trouble like that. She should've woken Chris. They could've called Pride and closed a net around the house. But no, she had to try to handle it herself. Actually, she hadn't thought he'd actually be there, lurking outside of his former victim's home. She'd only thought of finding the cameras, secreting them away to investigate further without Chris ever having to know- _Oh, god_.

She willed her eyes open with more force this time, recognizing the grey as a concrete ceiling. As soon as consciousness returned, Merri had known where she was. The question was-

She looked around, craning her neck and tugging at the bindings restraining her as she moved, trying to see, trying to make sure... The panicked tension in her body relaxed a little when she realized Chris wasn't there. She knew there could be other reasons. He was being held somewhere else. Or he was dead. But from what she knew of the monster, the psychology he'd displayed in his abuse of his victims and his stalking of Chris and herself... He wouldn't have killed Chris. Not yet. If he had the man, he'd be there, to witness Merri's torture or for his pain to be witnessed by her. But - _thank god_ \- he wasn't there. Chris LaSalle was safe. (She had to believe he was safe.)

It was a sparsely furnished space. Just the bed she was tied down on, a cabinet in one corner, a little side table with a shadeless lamp and... an alarm clock. It was a simple retro metal thing that ticked loudly, little bells sitting on the top of its round face like ears. So innocuous. Yet... So many moments over the past months finally fell into place like puzzle pieces. Chris had told her some of the things he'd suffered (too many for her peace of mind), but he'd never fully explained why a clock or a classic alarm triggered his PTSD.

Now she knew.

That clock, its inexorable ticking would permeate her nightmares for years, join the one that already had come to life. The man -the _nightmare monster_ \- who was perched on the edge of the mattress beside her resembled the various police sketches made from his victims' memories quite well. But Merri would have recognized him anyway. Anywhere. The twisted soul of the man sent a chill into her very bones. But seeing him in the flesh diminished none of the terror of the monster image in her mind. And yet, even knowing his physical description... He seemed bigger. It was the menacing presence of him as much as his powerful form.

He stroked her face again with large, blunt fingers that could easily choke the life out of her one-handed. She flinched.

"Took you long enough to come around, Doe-Eyes."

Merri narrowed her 'doe eyes' and glared, trying to ignore the hand that began to explore her naked body. She couldn't help but wonder if the sadistic psychopath had left her clothes half-burned in a barrel for Chris and Pride and the others to find. She'd never returned the charred saint's medallion to him, afraid it might trigger a breakdown. Did he have it now? Would he even know it was hidden in the locket he'd given her that she only ever took off to shower?

Was the stupid thing a curse and not a charm? It probably was a sick compulsion. Anyone would say so if she told them she put the burned St. Christopher's Medal that her lover's murdered girlfriend had given him into the locket he'd given her. But that's because they didn't understand the history of the heartache surrounding it, the strength it'd given her, the connection it'd been to him when she thought him lost to all of them forever.

"Stay with me." Pain burst across her cheek as her captor slapped her. She glared even harder at him, blinking against the lingering sedative. "You don't hold your Acepromazine very well, do you?"

Merri only continued to stare, pouring all of her rage into it. She honestly had no idea what to say to this evil bastard. Any response or acknowledgement would just play directly into his hands. And ignoring him would only give him the excuse to begin hurting her.

"Strong and silent type?" He continued to caress her like he was petting some sort of fluffy kitten. It was deceptively gentle for what she knew those hands were capable of. "I can't deny the appeal in such a creature as yourself."

He touched a part of her less than a dozen men had ever been allowed to touch, and only one man had touched in the past year. And if she were completely honest, she only wanted it to be that one man who touched her there ever again. And this man -this _monster_ \- was not Chris LaSalle.

"I'm curious how you put our Pretty Boy back together. I may just have to take you apart to see what your secret is." He pushed a finger inside of her and she gagged, swallowing down the bile that had rushed up the back of her throat. She didn't want to flinch in front of the bastard, appear weak. But she instinctively squirmed, not wanting any part of the monster inside of her, touching her. Her movement was unfortunately restricted by the padded cuffs keeping her hands and legs spread-eagled on the bed.

He laughed. She wished she hadn't swallowed the acid her stomach had regurgitated so that she could've spat it in his face.

"He was inside of you just last night." He leaned over her, so close his breath caressed her cheek with its licorice-scented warmth. Her inner muscles relaxed when the invasive finger was removed, but her stomach turned again as he stuck it in his mouth and sucked it clean with a contemplative hum, his gaze never leaving her face "He used a condom, didn't he? Shame."

He knew what Chris tasted like. She tried not to think about it, about the twisted son of a bitch forcing her lover (he was _hers_ , fucking _hers_ , because he _chose_ to be, damn it) to orgasm against his will. She was going to fucking kill the rapist. She didn't know exactly how, but she was.

"I would've loved to taste him on you, in you. Maybe once we're all together, I'll have him fuck you just so I can see what that tastes like."

"You'll never lay a finger on him again," she said, her voice icy. She was surprised she could sound so cold. But a lifetime of training (well, pretty damned near) and she was an expert at being whatever she needed in the face of criminals, some of them complete monsters like this asshole. "You might as well just torture and kill me now. Because you will never get him back."

He smiled. It was more than wolfish. It was downright sinister and sent a shiver down her spine. And then he was on top of her, straddling her waist, the weight of him an unbearable unstoppable force. His large, meaty hand settled at her throat. She waited for it to squeeze, to cut off her air, to being choking the life from her. But he just remained there, poised on the edge of violence, terrifying and baffling. His blue eyes -both similar to ones she loved and entirely disparate for the malice they contained- studied her. She'd been on the other end of such an evaluative gaze many times. She understood it well. Creepily enough, she understood him well.

He was a sadist, a psychopath. But unfortunately instead of being a Wildman of the Woods type, separating himself from humanity because of a lack of connection to it, people _intrigued_ the man who wasn't really a person. He sought them out, broke them down, took them apart... Psychologically, anyways. Which Merri wasn't sure was better than the alternative kind of exploration psychopath's did, cutting victims open to see how they worked. This monster left them physically alive (beaten and bruised and scarred but alive)... Only, she'd seen one of the strongest men she'd ever known's personality ground to dust, hollowed out on the inside.

This creep asked her how she had put Chris LaSalle together again. She hadn't. He'd rebirthed himself from the ashes like a fucking phoenix. Maybe he wasn't completely new. He held the scars and pains of the past. But he had recovered all that had made him beautiful, too. His sense of humor and his compassion, his sweetness. No one could ever put the light of Chris LaSalle's soul out. Maybe dampen it, cause it to flicker, but never put it out.

And this evil bastard could play all the games he wanted with her. She'd see them all coming. Criminal psychology, extreme interrogation, torture methods, she'd unfortunately studied them in detail, and some in practice. He wouldn't be able to take her apart like he threatened, not when the light at the center of her own soul was the same flame burning in Chris LaSalle's.

"You and I are alike, I think," he said finally.

"If I even thought that were remotely true, I would've killed myself a long time ago," she said. He laughed. It was a rumble like a bear's growl, deep and primal. She was oh-so-glad that she amused him.

Sarcasm aside, maybe amusing him was better than the alternative. Although, she wasn't sure it was amusement as much as a facsimile of humor; Curiosity and interest, laughter to unsettle. When she failed to react to his reaction, his face went neutral. The malignant intelligence in his eyes was unnerving, however.

"I see it," he said. "You can't hide it from me."

She swallowed. What the hell was this psychopath talking about now? Because she could pretend to be something she wasn't (pretend to be tough and indifferent when she was terrified), he thought they were the same. He doubtless had a completely 'normal' everyday life outside of his little 'hobby' of abducting, torturing and raping innocent people. An expert pretender, only letting the beast out in this hellhole with his victims.

He stroked her cheek. She instinctively snapped her head towards the offending hand biting at him, but he'd seen it coming, expected it even, withdrawing his fingers and giving her a sincere, but not remotely friendly smile.

"Deep down, underneath all the bullshit, you're a predator, Meredith Brody. Just like me."

She honestly didn't know how she was supposed to, how she was _expected_ to respond to that, no matter the role she was playing. The man obviously preferred resilience, a tough, indifferent sort of personality in his captives. But to be comparing himself to her, his victim? Was he just trying to fuck with her head?

"Our Pretty Boy, he's an interesting creature." The beast was toying with her breasts, teasing her nipples, sending unwanted sensations through her body to mix with the disgust and fear and rage. Definitely trying to fuck with her head. His fingers kept returning to a spot just to the inside of her left breast, and she couldn't figure out why until she remembered making love with Chris (how long ago was that now?) and his suckling her skin there, affectionately marking her.

"He's got Daddy Issues hasn't he? Makes him eager to please. When it comes down to it, underneath all of his bravado, his true nature is that of a submissive."

Merri balked at this assertion. It was the last thing she would ever call the outgoing, charming young man.

"He's stronger than you thought," she said, unable to keep the acid from her tone. "You couldn't break him."

The beast leaned in close again, a hand at her throat keeping her still as he rested his forehead against hers and stared directly into her eyes.

"I broke him. And you know I did. Didn't just make him submit. Before I was done with him, he begged for it, _wanted_ it . But you gathered up the pieces and forced them back together out of pure will."

No. She refused to admit the extent of damage this beast had done. She'd seen the aftermath, Chris LaSalle nearly-catatonic sitting on a hospital room floor. And then pretending to be his normal self, but distant... always distant. And when she'd finally managed to draw him out and then draw him close, so close he'd become a part of her... He still woke up screaming in the night, sweat coating his body, still had to leave the room when certain smells became overwhelming, his skin still grew ashen, his hands trembling when unknown triggers hit him.

But he'd survived, damn it. He'd survived. He still smiled and laughed, treated others with respect, teased his friends and made love to her with all of his heart and soul.

"No. That was all him," she said.

He sat back, his massive, muscular weight shifting onto her hips (her legs were going numb), but he seemed unconvinced by her argument.

"I was wrong about you," he said. Admitting he was fallible? A new tactic? She was sick of this conversation. "The first thing I noticed were those pretty Doe-Eyes of yours. But you're no fawn. They're just camouflage."

"Every shapely, alluring curve of your body..." He traced said curves with his large hands. "It only disguises the predator beneath."

"I don't attack or hurt people," she said, tugging at her wrist cuffs, wanting to slap the superior look off the face of the bastard who'd raped and tortured the man she loved.

"What about all of those 'criminals' you've taken down?"

Merri clenched her jaw. The monster was trying to get to her, trying to twist up the acts of violence she'd committed in the line of duty, try to make her believe that they weren't dissimilar to his own atrocities. It wasn't going to work. She wasn't even going to give him the pleasure of responding to the baiting.

"You did it out of some instinctual protectiveness," he said. "And when it comes down to it, that's an act of a predator, a domesticated one, yes, but still a predator. The German Shepherd has more in common with the wolf than the sheep."

Chris LaSalle was no sheep. He was a man. A complex human being and she loved him. And to some degree he loved her, she knew, even if it wasn't the 'rainbows and lollipops and happily ever after' sort of love. He wasn't a prey animal to be consumed by a beast, chewed up and spat out.

"Even now, all you can think about is how to protect what's yours. You'll fight me to the very last because you think _he_ belongs to you."

The rage swelled to a degree that had her panting hard through her nose, her heaving chest belying the neutral expression she forced onto her face. But it wasn't like she could hide the contempt and fury doubtless blatant in her eyes.

He shifted, stretching his legs out between hers and lowering himself on top of her, the rough fabric of his cargo pants scraping against her sensitive flesh as he rubbed himself suggestively against her groin. The metal of his belt buckle was cold against her stomach, the heat of his big, muscular body radiating through the softer fabric of his t-shirt as his solid chest crushed her breasts.

She thrashed as much as the restraints would allow, but it was no good. She had no leeway to make a strike of any sort.

"This is going to be fun. I had never thought you'd be as delectable as Pretty Boy's sweet ass. But once he comes crawling back to me on his knees, begging for me to take him, we'll all find out what you're both made of, shall we?"

Merri calmed herself, realizing there was one way she could physically rebel, strike out at her captor, hurt the monster who'd hurt Chris LaSalle, who planned to torture him further, as well as her. She surged upward and bit the bastard right in the fleshy part of his cheek, sinking her teeth in as deep as she could, tasting blood, too satisfied by his roar of pain and fury to be disgusted. He pulled away, leaving her with a chunk of his flesh that she spat out onto the clean grey sheet before he backhanded her so hard lights exploded behind her eyes. And then his ridiculously strong hand was grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him, blood streaming down his cheek. But his blue eyes were bright with the dangerous sort of lust that was only remotely sexual.

"I'm right. You're a bitch. Not a doe."

As it turned out, she was also the bait.

* * *

 **A/N: What is Merri willing to endure to protect Chris? What lengths will he go to free her?**


End file.
